The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade
by Westron Wynde
Summary: Still shaken after the events in his last investigation, young Mr Sherlock Holmes has much to prove by taking on a case to exonerate Inspector Lestrade from charges of corruption in another of his early cases. Who is the old Russian woman? And is Mycroft really getting married? Sequel to Postern Prison. COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

**Sherlock Holmes is the singular and exceptional creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This story is a work of fan fiction, written by a fan, for the pleasure of other fans and no harm is meant or intended by its creation.**

**The sequel to 'The Particular Problem of Postern Prison'**

**Yes, it's been a while. But I always planned on completing this series of Sherlock Holmes' Early Cases. Enjoy! **

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Prologue**

Somewhere in the background, there is noise. Dull, far off, a persistent thud, coming at irregular intervals. Unconsciousness clings to me like a shroud, resisting my efforts to emerge to wakefulness. The nearer I approach, I am aware of something else – pain, deep and bone-churning, stomach-turning, agonising, radiating from my left ankle.

I embrace it, let it overwhelm me and I come rushing back to consciousness with a groan that I cannot suppress. With comes nausea and I cannot prevent myself from retching. I try to turn and find I am pinned to the ground. A great weight presses down on my legs, the body of a large animal. The hide is still warm to my touch, the last embers of a life extinguished. I had known this beast; I had groomed this same coat until it shone like burnished ebony. Now it was dead, its throat cut, and the once glossy coat is matted and dull.

I try to push myself up, and my probing fingers touch straw slick with viscous blood. Not mine, but that of the unfortunate animal.

Unfortunate for me too, for I am trapped, crushed beneath its dead weight. That they have left me alive is not promising; having been told I was about to die, the fact that I breathe still suggests that some wretched fate awaits me.

And as my senses awaken to the situation, I hear the screams and snorts of other frightened animals. Horses, locked in stalls, rearing and thudding hooves against bolted doors, in fear of their lives. I catch the faint smell of smoke on the breeze, and hear the crackle of burning straw. The chill of realisation strikes deep at my soul.

Fire, the danger that every stableman fears.

A tinderbox filled with fuel for the flames, the fire will tear through the building, consuming all in less time than it takes for the alarm to be raised. The resulting inferno will consume all in its wake, straw or flesh, dead or alive.

I try to turn, ignoring the protests from my crushed legs as I force them to twist and grind against each other. I scrabble through the wet straw with my one good hand, and dig my nails into the gaps between the cobbles. I try to haul myself free, but my fingers slip on the bloody stones, foiling my every attempt. I have gained less than a quarter of an inch. I am still held firm.

Somewhere beyond these four wooden walls, I hear the roar of the fire growing. Tendrils of smoke are visible now, filtering down to me, catching in my throat and making me cough. In the stable next door, through the top railings, I see the bay filly, Artemis, pitch and rise, her eyes rolling, her screams terrifying to the ear.

Her fear wills me on, and in vain I struggle for a tentative hold on the stone. Effort and frustration make me cry out as my fingers lose their grip and my nails chip and shatter. No one will hear, I know. Nor will they come. They expect us to die, these unfortunate creatures and me, their inconvenient problem buried beneath the rubble of this building.

I tell myself that I will not succumb so easily. I tell myself that Sherlock Holmes, whatever his recent failings, would know how to extract himself from this situation. Better yet, he would never have ended up here in the first place.

To die now is the ultimate admission of failure. The nagging voice of doubt chides me for my vanity, in believing that I could have ever been anything other than a pawn for other men's games. When they bury what is left of me, it would be in pauper's grave under an assumed name. My brother will never know, although he may well guess and comfort himself with the certainty that he had been right all along.

That thought, if nothing else, rankles.

I tell myself there is still time. I keep trying.

Even as I delude myself, I am choking and wheezing on the acrid smoke. The fire is consuming all in its wake, and the walls dance with light of the advancing flames. Above the roar, my ears are assaulted by the squeals of trapped animals, some of them already silenced by the pitiless flames.

I reach out further with my right hand, finding a firmer hold. My left hand, with its three broken fingers, is more hindrance than help, so I plant my elbow firmly to the ground and throw every last ounce of my strength into the effort. The pain is unbearable; it mocks my poor attempt. Then, on the cusp of defeat, I feel my legs shift. I find another crevice in the cobbles and pull again. Slowly, inch by agonising inch, I make progress until suddenly my legs are free.

I force myself upright, ignoring the protests from my ankle. In the suffocating smoke, I have to feel for the bolt on the other side of the door, finally sliding it back. I stagger from the flames, pulling my coat over my nose and mouth, throwing open stable doors as I go. Several horses charge past me, out into the dark night. As they vanish, I see a familiar figure coming towards me.

I near fall into his arms, gagging and fighting for every breath.

"Mr Holmes, thank the high heavens," says Lestrade, forestalling my collapse by lowering me to the ground. "When I didn't hear from you, I expected the worst, so I came looking." His expression changes when he sees the bruises on my face and my twisted fingers. "Who did this to you? Vigor?"

I am too choked to talk. My throat is on fire and I am dizzy from the smoke. I have so much to tell him, but cannot find my voice.

Then from the darkness runs another figure. I recognise him as Danny Palmer, the young apprentice, his wide eyes glowing red in the firelight, his face stricken.

"Where's Artemis?" he cries. And before we can stop him, he dashes headlong into the blazing building.

Lestrade yells a warning at him that goes unheeded. Then, leaving me, he is up on his feet and running after the impetuous young fellow. I try to stop him, but my voice is barely a whisper. The inferno's rage knows no bounds, and as the long seconds ebb away, the building starts to creak and groan. At last from its fiery heart, I see a horse galloping towards me, trailing smoke where its tail has been scorched. Further behind, I see Lestrade, his arm supporting the younger man.

I urge them forward, away from the blaze. Above the roar, the roof gives one final pained moan and begins to sag. I can only watch as it gives up its unequal battle and buckles. I shield my face from the flying embers as the timbers plummet to the ground. Burning wood now forms a barricade at the entrance to the stable block, and I struggle to see any sign of Palmer or Lestrade.

I fear the worst.

I pull myself up, knowing I must head back into the flames. If either of us survives this night, it will be nothing short of a miracle.

I could not prevent the death of 'the old Russian woman'. But, if he is alive, I can certainly try to save Lestrade.

* * *

_**To find out how this alarming situation came about, onwards to Chapter One!**_

_**Reviews always welcome and greatly appreciated!**_


	2. Chapter 1

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter One: False Start  
**

"Inspector Lestrade is a bad apple, rotten to the core!"

Sir Rupert Bradley, Commissioner of Police, made his point by slamming his fist hand hard on the desk. Several papers rustled and drifted to the edge, disturbing other pages, which floated to the floor. To his greater annoyance, his cup of tea jumped from the saucer and slopped liquid into his lap.

If truth be told, I was finding his inattention irritating on that rainy afternoon in late spring of 1879. April showers had given way to May downpours, and London sagged beneath the unrelenting weather. People and pavements were sodden, and the heavy grey clouds weighed on the soul. Five months into the year, and winter had yet to lose its grip. The rain continued, and temperatures had stubbornly resisted rising.

Even in the Commissioner's snug office, where a fire had been maintained in the hearth, there was a decided chill in the air. Considering the subject of our discussion, I could not lay the blame for the shivers that periodically ran up my spine entirely on the weather.

I had been delaying this meeting for as long as I could, partly out of necessity, partly by design. In the months after leaving Postern Prison, I had been beset by one aliment after another. Bitter cold and my emaciated state had conspired to wreak havoc on my constitution, confining me to bed for days at a time. As one long week dragged into another and no sign of improvement in my health, Mycroft had inquired whether it was worth his while paying for my bed and board, since, so it seemed to him, he was throwing good money away after bad if what I really needed was a shelf in the family vault.

I noted that he did not visit in person. Our family tradition held that illness was to be avoided at all costs and those who fell by the wayside were best left there. He did, however, send a succession of doctors, none of whom agreed on the best course of treatment, and instead suggested either copious amounts of food or indecent amounts of alcohol.

Worse of all was the physician who offered me a patent medicine guaranteed 'to put the colour back in my cheeks in no time'. I spent several listless days analysing this so-called 'miracle tonic', to find that lead, arsenic and mercury were amongst the ingredients. I passed on my findings the General Medical Council, and was relieved to hear in due course that the physician in question was practising no longer.

If the doctors were confounded by their failures, the blame had to lie partially with me. There were matters I had not told them, or more honestly _could not_ tell them.

I had not even told Mycroft. To confide would be to admit that what he had long known to be correct, that I was unfit for the role of consulting detective.

I was starting to believe it too. The events had Postern had shaken me more than I cared to admit. It made me question my own abilities, my own judgement even. Six months ago, this would never have been the case.

Even at my lowest, I had not been tormented by this lack of confidence.

Something had changed.

That something was the morning I had been drugged and dragged from a cell in one of the country's most notorious prisons, had a rope thrust around my neck and fell through the trapdoor. The scene played over and over in my mind, unbidden. The touch of the hood against my cheek, the blood pounding in my ears, the sheer helplessness and futility of it all. My dreams always ended the same, with the sensation of falling, always into nothingness, a deep void without an end. At that point, I usually awoke, shaking and sweating.

Death, in itself, holds few fears for me, but I defy any man to stare extinction in the face and emerge unscathed. It forces the acceptance of certain truths. We are never as honest as when we have stared into the abyss.

In my case, it was the knowledge that my last case had been one blunder after another. I failed to measure up to my own high standards, and at the final reckoning, it had been Mycroft who had located Vamberry's whereabouts, with less effort than I had expended on treadmills and broken teeth.

It was a bitter pill to swallow. Then, descending Jove-like in a shower of pomposity, Mycroft had had the gall to tell me that the one person I held as an ally was implicated in what he had described as 'a canker at the heart of Scotland Yard'. He had forbidden my association with Lestrade, and worse, had questioned his actions during my last case. He had held the Inspector's fate above my head like the sword of Damocles, and like that unfortunate courtier of old placed in the same situation, I found my position decidedly precarious.

I thought, for once, that I knew more than Mycroft. Whatever Lestrade's deficiencies as a detective, I had allowed myself to trust the man. If not for his timely intervention at the prison, I should have died. Now I was being asked to investigate him, to exonerate or condemn. I had no difficulty believing the former, less the latter. The problem was proving it, one way or the other, and I knew I was unequal to the task.

Put simply, I had lost those particular skills that gave me my living.

Where once I had seen the lover, the banker, the swindler, the liar, the thief or the clerk carved in the faces and attire of the milling throng, I saw now only men and women going about their everyday lives. Mud on trouser knees was just that, and the spatulate fingertips of the average man on the tram held as little meaning to me as the smell of the tobacco he was smoking.

I told myself it was a passing fancy. As the body recovered, I had reasoned the mind would follow. Little by little, my health strengthened, but the secret life of London remained closed to me. I began to face the truth that I was a consulting detective without the means to pursue my profession, and without means of correcting my condition. Physicians would not understand, Mycroft would gloat, and I would be forced to accept one of the petty government sinecures that my brother had at his disposal.

I saw my future mapped out in frightening detail. Days of slow decline, locked in a nameless department, shifting papers and shuffling lives. Retreat to a club and then to bed, to sleep and awaken the next day to start the whole tedious process over and over again until I faded away from tedium.

That prospect gnawed at my soul, tormenting my days and plaguing my nights. Sleep proved elusive at the best of times, except now I found myself dreading its presence. As a result, I was exhausted. My mind was disordered, my thoughts ungoverned. I told myself I needed sleep and, better yet, sleep without dreams.

Pressed by one of the doctors, I had confided the problem of my insomnia. His answer had been laudanum. I resisted for the longest time, then out of desperation had weakened. Content at first to have found relief, I tried to ignore those days when I was racked with confusion and could not distinguish waking daydreams from night terrors. Only when I caught myself increasing the dose to achieve the desired effect did I realise my folly. I immediately emptied the infernal concoction down the sink. The insomnia returned, worse than ever, and I took to wandering the streets after dark to shake off the lethargy.

These nightly perambulations took me far afield, sometimes to places new, other times to the familiar. One evening, I found myself back at the Hoxton Hippodrome, where the chorus girls still danced as gaily as ever and no doubt teased impressionable young men in the wings. A tawdry magician plied his trade, pulling flowers from his sleeve and cards from his pocket. Next was a mind-reader, claiming to be able to delve into the secrets of strangers. I envied him. Even with the obvious help of an assistant in the audience, he was at least able to make good on his claims. If I were his shoes, up on that stage again with the eyes of the crowd on me, I doubted whether my poor efforts would receive so rapturous a reception.

The night I realised I could delay the inevitable no longer was when my travels took me through Whitehall and into the path of a familiar figure. A group of policemen was gathered on the corner of the road that led down to Scotland Yard, and amongst their number I discerned several members of the detective division. I pulled up my collar and tried to pass by unnoticed. At that same moment, the group broke up, laughing loudly, and one of them bumped into me.

There was no easy escape. We recognised each other immediately. Lestrade had an air of ebullience about him that was contagious, and the wide grin on his face was mirrored on that of his companion, a short, insignificant man of similar years and disposition.

"Why, if it isn't Mr Sherlock Holmes," said Lestrade, slapping me on the back. "Bless my soul, I haven't seen you in ages. Well, not since I got you out of that prison."

"A convict, eh?" said his companion.

"No, Mr Holmes here was helping out Gregson."

"Well, he would need it."

The pair guffawed extravagantly. I tried to slip away, but Lestrade held onto my arm. "He's lucky, this young man." I noticed a slight slur to his voice. Up close, I could also detect the smell of alcohol on his breath. "Near got himself a wry neck and lived to tell the tale. 'Sheer luck', that's what I call him down the Yard."

"I've heard you call the lowlifes many things, Lestrade, but never that."

"Oh, but Mr Holmes here is special," he continued blithely. "He was hanged and–"

"Lestrade," I interrupted. "Is this necessary?"

He chuckled and put a finger to his lips. "It's all very hush-hush, Gerald. We're not supposed to talk about it."

Talking about it was not the problem. Who might be listening was more of a concern. Not that this thought had occurred to Lestrade; both he and his companion continued to laugh drunkenly, drawing the attention of every passer-by.

I was inclined not to linger. There was that about his manner that I found deeply offensive. While I had fretted in an agony of indecision, Lestrade, like my brother, had been noticeable by his absence. Mycroft had at least sent wires; I had heard nothing from Lestrade. I knew he was at large, and, if the reports in the papers were anything to go by, thriving. Hardly a week went by that his name had not been associated with the foiling of some nefarious activity in the capital. I could only imagine Gregson's fury that his hated rival was stealing his thunder.

For my part, I had put his lack of interest down to the demands of his work. This had not been entirely satisfactory. Having worked with the man, this new-found success of his was puzzling.

Failing that, I had consoled myself that he, like myself, had been dissuaded from continuing our former association. Mycroft had set out his terms to me and the consequences that would follow my refusal to comply in no uncertain fashion. I imagined someone had done the same with Lestrade. Now I had met him, however, I realised that, what for me had been the ruination of my livelihood, was for him a source of amusement.

"Nice to have seen you again, Lestrade," I said brusquely. "I must be on my way."

"Now don't be like that." His grip tightened on my arm. "Mr Holmes used to help me with the odd case or two."

Given some of the circumstances we had investigated, 'odd' was indeed the appropriate word.

"Then he got himself some nice rooms up in Bloomsbury and he thinks he's too good for the rest of us, don't you, Mr 'High-and-Mighty' Holmes. Won't hob-nob with the likes of us now he's got his fancy government job working for his brother. Butter won't melt in this one's mouth, Gerald."

I stared at Lestrade. "You're drunk."

He took a moment to frame the words, slightly lurching as he tried by gesture to describe the exact nature of his condition. "Not quite. But I intend to be before the evening is out." He pulled the other man close and patted his cheek. "This here is my brother-in-law, Gerald. He's a good egg, aren't you, Gerald? We're celebrating."

"I can see that. What exactly?"

Lestrade pulled himself up to his full height. "I've become a father. Again."

I tried to remember how many children populated the Lestrade household at the last count. "Is this number four or five?"

"Six and seven actually. The wife had twins last night. Girls. Rachel and Rebecca." He grinned broadly. "And a bonnier pair you'll never see in merry old England."

"Bonnier than you were at that age, I'll wager," chuckled Gerald.

I dutifully offered my congratulations. "I trust Mrs Lestrade is well."

"Right as rain. Her mother's looking after her. And her father's staying with us too."

"This would be the gentleman who keeps ferrets?"

"_Prize_ ferrets," Lestrade corrected me, waving a finger in my direction. "_Champion_ ferrets, in fact. You think you know everything, but you don't. And my father-in-law, he's a very important man in the ferret world now, so mind what you say about him."

That sounded to me like something of a dubious honour. Still, it would be a dull world if we were all the same.

"Now are you going to come along with us, Mr Holmes, and help us wet the babies' heads, or am I going to have to arrest you?"

I wondered what charge applied to those who refused to drink with an inspector from Scotland Yard, and decided, considering Lestrade's mood and the happy occasion, that I should not test the case. And something he had said had awakened my interest.

I did not resist when he hauled me along with Gerald into the nearest public house. The atmosphere was hot and slightly foetid, as to be expected when a mass of humanity press into a confined space with inadequate sanitation and the liberal application of alcohol. Lestrade pushed through the crowd to the bar, dragging us behind him. Grumbles followed in our wake as elbows jostled the glasses in drinkers' hands and slopped beer onto the sawdust-strewn floor.

"Landlord!" Lestrade called. "Drinks for my two friends here. Your best bitter for me and Gerald here, and what'll you have, Holmes?"

I eyed the stained glasses and the dirty brown colour of the ale with its swirling lumps of sediment. "Whisky, if they have it."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, and Gerald sniggered. "Oh, _whisky_, is it? Good English ale not good enough for you? You'll be wanting soda next, I daresay. Well, you heard the man, landlord, your best whisky and make it a double." He gave me a withering glance. "That'll put hairs on your chest, Mr Holmes."

"It'll part 'em in the middle, from what I've heard," said Gerald.

Three glasses appeared before us, and Lestrade swept up his with gusto. "Your good health, gentlemen, and that of the latest additions to the family."

"Here, here," said Gerald. He gulped down a mouthful and grimaced as though he had swallowed red-hot coals. "'Ere, that's not bad. A bit chewy, mind."

"Then we should all be enjoying it." Much to the landlord's bemusement, Lestrade clambered up on the bar and addressed the curious throng. "Gents, I've had twins and we're celebrating. Drinks all round!"

A hearty cheer rose up and the crowd hurried forward. I was near crushed against the bar under their weight, and it took a good deal of struggling and pushing before I was able to escape and find myself a seat in the corner. The hero of the hour, Lestrade bantered and joked with his fellow drinkers, and it was a little while before he joined me. Gerald was nowhere to be seen, and his brother-in-law seemed unconcerned as to his fate.

"You enjoying that?" said Lestrade, nodding to my still full glass as he eased himself onto the bench next to me.

"Very pleasant. I thank you."

He grunted. "You want to get that down you, Mr Holmes. It'll do you the world of good. You look like you need it. What are you, nine stone dripping wet?"

I was somewhat below that, but that was none of Lestrade's concern.

"They've obviously not been feeding you in Whitehall. You look like death warmed up. Mind you," he said, taking a sip of beer, "I've always said those Whitehall types were a load of ghouls."

"Contrary to what you may have heard about me, Inspector–"

He waved this aside. "I've heard a lot, Mr Holmes. And I understand it too. You've got prospects, well, so have I, and what with the family growing and the like, I have to look to myself. I can't keep scuppering my chances by associating with amateurs who come and go when they feel like it."

"Is that what you think I've been doing?"

Lestrade could not meet my eye. "You've been busy, I daresay."

"You haven't been idle either."

"That I have. And all on my own too. No help from you or Gregson. Now what do you think of that, Mr Holmes?"

"I applaud your diligence, Lestrade. At this rate, you'll make Chief Inspector in no time."

"A rise in pay would suit me better."

My gaze turned to the plethora of drinkers, currently enjoying the fruits of Lestrade's largesse. "You appear to be doing very well for yourself in any case."

"Ah," he said brightening. "I've had a bit of good fortune lately. And what with the little 'uns, it's been welcome."

Paying for a round for fifty or hardened drinking men would have required more than 'a bit' of good luck, as Lestrade described it. The first beginnings of uncertainty were nipping at my mind.

"What sort of good fortune?" I inquired.

"The sort the wife wouldn't approve of."

The secrecy was revealing. "Then we are of the same mind. A man who gambles does so with his family's happiness."

"Now, now, I've only had the odd flutter," said he defensively. He saw my expression. "I don't need your approval."

"There are better ways to waste your money, but none surer."

"Normally, I would agree with you, but I know what I'm doing. Now take Gerald here." His brother-in-law was staggering towards us, an empty glass in his hand and a bleary look in his eyes. "He's a gambling man, and he'll tell you it's all down to chance."

"I've never won nothing, me," said the luckless Gerald, near missing the bench as his legs collapsed beneath him. "I can't think why."

"Being a born loser probably has something to do with it."

Gerald considered this unhappily. "I wish you'd tell me your secret. How d'you pick 'em?"

"Can't do that, Gerald."

"But I'm family."

"Family or no, I'd not be right in the head if I were to kill the goose that laid the golden egg, would I now?"

I listened to this exchange, feeling my misgivings growing. Talk of secrets when it came to gambling did not bode well. Nevertheless, I was intrigued and felt inclined to press him further. Lestrade was just verging on that border where drink loosens the tongue enough for the sharing of confidences.

"Let's just say my blessings are twofold at the moment," said he at my prompting, "and I'm not a man to go looking a gift horse in the mouth." He jabbed Gerald in the ribs. "A gift _horse_, get it?"

The implication of this was clear. I did not flatter myself that this elementary deduction heralded the return of my abilities.

"Ah, so you've 'deduced' it, have you?" Lestrade's mood suddenly turned sour. "Took you long enough. You see, Gerald, Mr Holmes considers himself to be a detective – forgive me, a _consulting_ detective. He can look at a man and tell you when was the last time he changed his socks."

Gerald looked puzzled. "Why would you need to know that?"

"It's his trick. Thinks it makes him cleverer than the rest of us. Well, we'll see. Oi, Harry, over here a minute."

A bearded man of middling years, in a shabby coat, tweed trousers and yellow waistcoat, wandered over in answer to Lestrade's call. He stood in front of us, swaying unsteadily, red of cheek and eyes unfocused.

"Now, Gerald," said Lestrade. "Old Harry and me are well acquainted from the days when I was in uniform. I'll bet you half-a-crown that Mr Holmes here can tell us what this gent's profession is without batting an eyelid."

Gerald squinted at the man. "I'll take that bet. Let's see your money."

Several coins appeared on the table. The talk of a wager had attracted the interest of others, and I saw money changing hands.

For my part, I stared at the man before me, a sinking feeling clawing at my insides. I looked, I tried to observe, and could make nothing of it. The clothes that had seen better days, the attempt at respectability with the stained necktie, the calluses on his hands, the peculiar wear on his shoulder where several threads had been torn, the short brown hairs adhering to his coat and battered hat – it had meant something once; now it was just so many meaningless details. A hundred thousand men like this peopled the city, and I had been called upon to give an account of just one plucked from the many.

As the long silence dragged on, I could feel the oppressive weight of Lestrade's stare. All eyes were on me, all waiting for a pronouncement. The unpalatable truth was that I had nothing. My thoughts were noisy, as loud as the pounding of my heart. My chest felt constricted, and all I could think was how to escape the situation, as quickly as possible.

"Well?" Lestrade prompted.

I had to say something. I latched onto the hairs – clearly animal in origin – and made a wild guess.

"A cabman," I said at last.

A groan sounded from several members of the throng.

"No, he's an organ grinder," said Lestrade. "I'd have thought that was obvious. Where's your monkey, Harry?"

"On the bar, having half a'pint of the best," said he. "'Ere, no one's ever thought me a cabby afore now. Wouldn't mind their takings though."

"I should be going," I said, getting to my feet. "Again, congratulations on the birth of your daughters."

I fairly ran from the public house. Outside, I stopped to catch my breath. It was a mistake. A moment later, Lestrade had caught up with me.

"Mr Holmes, wait." I turned to go, but Lestrade caught me by the arms and forced me to look at him. "What happened just now?"

"Nothing."

"Don't give me that. You were as white as sheet, and sweating, like you were afeared for your life."

He stared at me, and in that moment I saw the realisation come into his eyes. His expression changed subtly, and the instant I thought I saw something approaching pity, I tore myself away and hurried home. My humiliation was complete.

I spent a fretful night and by morning had reached my decision. I sent Mycroft a telegram, explaining that I was not fit for the investigation he had in mind. I said no more than was necessary, and hoped that he would take this to mean that my health was still fragile.

The message that came back was terse, along the lines that he had made assurances and was expected to keep them. Certain people had grown tired of waiting, he claimed. If I was unequal to the task, then I would have to explain it to them in person.

This unhappy state of affairs therefore accounted for my presence in the office of the Commissioner of Police, watching Bradley dab himself dry of spilt tea, his face growing redder by the minute.

"Well, Mr Holmes, what do you propose to do about it?" said he. "I have been a patient man, but matters have come to a head. Your brother tells me you are discreet, but I would have your word on it."

"You place too much faith in my methods," I began.

"Perhaps so," he interjected. "But I can't argue with the Prime Minister. He said you were a clever fellow. Well, it appears he was wrong. I'll wait no longer. I'll have Lestrade arrested and the devil take the consequences!"

He made a gesture that implied the interview was at an end and it was time for me to leave. I hesitated. To admit defeat so easily was abhorrent to my nature. I thought of Lestrade, his good humour the night before, and the family he would leave behind if he were to be incarcerated. I recalled his words about the 'ghouls' of Whitehall and wondered whether I would find my place among them.

In the midst of these thoughts, my gaze wandered to the framed embroidery on the wall with the words, _In God We Trust_. Trust was something I had been lacking of late. If I could not trust myself, how was I to be of use to anyone? But then something from Proverbs drifted into my mind: _For a just __man__ falleth seven times, and riseth up again: but the wicked shall fall into mischief._ I had fallen once, and was already contemplating a fall far greater. Perhaps I owed it to myself, and Lestrade, to test whether I had six falls left in me.

"Are you still here?" said Bradley irritably.

I tried to remember how I would have handled such impertinence but six months ago. I dug deep and found a little of my pride remaining. "May I say, Commissioner, you are too hasty in jumping to conclusions."

He gave me a sharp look. "Don't prevaricate with me, Mr Holmes. Are you saying you're prepared to look into this business?"

"I can but try."

"I would have your word on your discretion."

"Naturally. Now, Sir Rupert, perhaps you could elaborate. After all, you have told me very little. I cannot make bricks without clay."

* * *

_**Lestrade – 'a rotten apple'? Surely not! And poor Mr Holmes, we knew you wouldn't give up that easily.**_

_**Continued in Chapter Two!**_


	3. Chapter 2

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Two: From the Horse's Mouth  
**

"Lestrade is a fool," said Commissioner of Police, Sir Rupert Bradley. A sizeable man with a roll of chins, ginger sideburns and a balding head, he gave a long sigh that seemed to release a little of his irritation and sat back in his chair till it creaked under his weight. "Even so, I'd have never thought it of the man. I didn't credit him with that much intelligence."

I had had reason in the past to question Lestrade's lack of imagination. The ability to take a broader view and avoid the prejudice of initial impressions is an important one in the field of detection. The Inspector's method was to arrest the most likely suspect and make the facts fit the case. He was not alone in this; rare indeed was the man who could draw a deduction based on the facts rather than twist them to his own theory. I hoped somewhere along the way I could remember how to achieve that effect, for it was clear that the Commissioner had already made up his mind about Lestrade's guilt.

"The problem I have," Bradley continued, "is what to do about it. The Criminal Investigations Department cannot afford another scandal so soon after the last."

Only a hermit would have failed to appreciate the Commissioner's concerns. The 'Trial of the Detectives', as it the popular press had labelled it, had scandalised the country. Three senior officers had been implicated and found guilty of corruption in a case of betting fraud that saw one woman relieved of £30,000. The detective division had been rocked by the revelation that several of its members had been passing information to the man behind the swindle in return for bribes, thus allowing him to evade capture whenever the net closed too tightly. Outrage had followed in the papers and at the trial. The guilty men were sentenced to two years' hard labour, and the Detective Branch had been reorganised into the new Criminal Investigations Department just a year previously. [1]

I could understand, therefore, Bradley's trepidation that another scandal was about to break. Public confidence in the new department, steadily building over the last two years, was fragile.

"The Home Secretary was all for 'nipping it in bud', so to speak, a few months ago," said Bradley. "Mycroft Holmes convinced him otherwise. Don't ask me how. He has that effect on people, doesn't he? He twisted my arm easily enough. I still don't know why we're talking. Rank nepotism, if you ask me." He gave me a deprecating look. "I despise amateurs. They trivialise our work."

I smiled. "I'm not keen on them myself, Commissioner."

He grunted. "You sound like your brother."

"I trust not."

"No," said he, visibly re-evaluating me. "You aren't as impressive. What is it exactly you do, Mr Holmes? Your brother tells me you have a unique way of looking at things. How is that to save us from public censure?"

I would have been the first to admit that I was not at my best. Before my troubles had started, I would have found a hundred indications to the man's character from the clothes he wore to the furnishings of his wood-panelled office. Now I struggled to see any relevance in the immaculate cut of his suit, the aged quality of the leather sofa in the corner, the red Turkish rug or the obsessive order of his desk furniture. A man of means and respectability, I concluded. Beyond that, my fledgling inferences were too timid to put on a show of that bravado which had served me so well in the past.

Diminished though I was, I did have some pride. I found the Commissioner's disdain objectionable. I knew what I had to do. The question of how to put thought into deed was another matter, and one that I was not about to share with Bradley.

"How can I say, Commissioner," I replied, "when you have told me nothing of the business? For instance, why I am speaking to you, and not the Home Secretary? The Criminal Investigation Division is under his direct command."

Bradley pulled a face, like a man ruminating on the ills of the world. "The Home Secretary does not dirty his hands with private inquiry agents."

"No, but then he has you to do it for him."

The man turned an interesting shade of puce. "How dare you–"

"No, Commissioner, let us understand each other. There is more at stake here than simply the reputation of your department. A man's life hangs in the balance. So instead of insulting me, why don't you tell me why I am really here."

My blood was up, and for the first time in months I was beginning to feel the old fire that only a troublesome case could stir.

"You throw accusations around, yet I doubt you have evidence of any alleged corruption on Lestrade's part that would stand up in court."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because we would not be having this conversation, and Lestrade would have been quietly retired." I raised a hand to forestall his objection. "You are about to tell me that he would have got a fair trial. But as you say, the Department can ill afford another scandal. Put Lestrade in the dock, and the press will be baying for blood. You are not so foolish as to believe they will settle for his alone. After him, they will come for you and your absent master. How much better for all concerned that he simply exit the stage, without fuss or fanfare."

By the time I had finished, he looked shaken. I made no apology for my outburst. On the contrary, I felt strangely elated. Bradley's self-complacency had slipped and I could see a new respect in his wary eyes.

"You speak the truth, Mr Holmes," he admitted. "It would be better that this never reaches the courtroom."

"That is why the Home Secretary is prepared to tolerate me, and why you will now furnish me with the facts."

Bradley considered this before replying. "And what we do with them?"

"Is your business. If Lestrade is guilty…" I could scarce bring myself to believe it, let alone say it. "Then best the corruption is arrested in its infancy. If he is innocent, however, he can never know that we have had this conversation. Those are _my_ terms."

"It would seem I have no choice but to accept." He sat forward in his chair and regarded me keenly. "As long as you understand that once we have proof of Lestrade's guilt, you will not be permitted to interfere with our decision."

I did understand. Their idea of a 'quiet retirement' was not mine. Vamberry had been 'retired' in an East End doss house with a bullet through his brain to avoid the coming scandal which would have rocked the prison system to its core. Merridew too had quietly disappeared, and never was a man more deserving of a trial than Postern's former governor. I imagined an accident would be arranged for Lestrade, most likely in the course of his duties to bolster the Department's beleaguered image. What then would become of his wife, seven children and father-in-law?

I had my own thoughts on what I would do if I did discover his guilt. What I told Commissioner Bradley, however, was simply what he wanted to hear.

"Nor would I attempt to do so. I despise liars, especially when they attempt to manipulate me to their own advantage."

The remark was pointed, and I saw it had hit home. Bradley did not like me, and the feeling was mutual.

"Very well, Mr Holmes. The facts then."

He rose and took up position by the rain-streaked window, his hand loosely clasped behind his back.

"Lestrade is a man of average intelligence, and I dare say a fairly competent officer. Someone must have thought he had potential to promote him in the first place, although their reasoning escapes me. He has not Bradstreet's flair or Gregson's ambition, but yet I find his name in the newspapers more so that of the Prime Minister. I ask you, is that what one would expect of a man of Lestrade's ability?"

"I had noticed," I said diplomatically.

"Everyone has noticed," Bradley muttered. "A halfwit like Lestrade should never have made inspector based on his past record. It reads like shilling shocker." He paused. "That all changed the day he solved that case at the Hoxton Hippodrome. Rumour is he had help, a young man posing as a fortune teller."

"A reader of minds, actually."

"Ah, then you do not deny you were there."

"No. It was an _experience_."

"And the Tankerville Club?"

"That was less agreeable."

"Ricoletti? The theft from the Royal Academy? What was it, an opal tiara and…"

"A _brayette_," I finished for him. "There was also a Diadem."

Bradley glanced at me over his shoulder. "Yes, I remember. You sent it to Gregson. Caused quite a stir, that did."

"No. The thief sent it, and attempted to implicate me."

"And of course you knew who that was."

I said nothing. I had refused to give Lestrade the name at the time, and I was not about to change my stance for the Commissioner of Police.

"His superior told him to arrest you for attempting to pervert the course of justice." He snorted. "Lestrade said you didn't know anything, and it was left at that, but his motive is obvious now. You were too useful to him to have you incarcerated."

This _was_ news to me. I fancied there was rather more to this story that Bradley cared to admit. The lack of proof, for instance, would have made the charge untenable.

"Then there was that disgraceful business at the prison," said Bradley.

"Lestrade was not privy to the initial stages of that investigation."

"Yes, I know. Gregson was. I thought he would have known better than to place a civilian in danger. We had to discipline him, naturally. He's been demoted to Sergeant."

I could imagine what Gregson had thought of that. I knew he was recovered and back at Scotland Yard, but I had not heard of his fall from grace. Any sympathy his shooting at the hands of an escaped prisoner might have earned him had not worked in his favour when the case had been reviewed. The glory to his hated rival, and reduced in the ranks into the bargain, making Lestrade effectively his superior. Gregson must have been fuming and most likely not feeling too kindly towards me either.

"We owe you an apology for that, _unofficially_, of course," said Bradley. "I understand we aren't supposed to know what happened, but word gets around. When good men start leaving us to set up rabbit farms, we have to ask why."

I remembered the amiable Sergeant Penglase with the uncertain medical qualifications, and it crossed my mind that he had come away from Postern Prison with the better part of the deal. There were worse things in life than rabbit-farming – demotion and charges of corruption, for instance.

"It was my choice," I said.

Bradley shook his head. "I knew Gregson was ambitious, but that little escapade was nothing short of reckless. Now if it had been Lestrade, I wouldn't have been at all surprised."

I attempted to bring him back to the matter in hand. "Commissioner, you appear to be tying my name to his. I hope you aren't including me in your accusations."

"Not at all. I merely state that Lestrade is incapable of solving a case on his own. Yet in the past few months, he has made one arrest after another. Coin counterfeiting in Clapham, a ring of pick-pockets in Putney, several dealers in stolen goods in Shoreditch, forgers in Farringdons, and milk-adulteration in Aldgate, to name but a few. He's put more criminals behind bars in this year alone than he ever did since joining the Force. It isn't natural."

"It does suggest he has had help."

Bradley fixed me with penetrating stare. "Not from you?"

"No, not from me. I have been…" I chose my words carefully. "Indisposed."

"On death's doorstep is how your brother put it. You don't look particularly well now, if you don't mind me saying. It isn't catching, is it?"

"Not unless you intend to spend any time in prison, Commissioner. I cannot recommend it."

"Good. It is always gratifying to hear that the system is working as a deterrent."

"That isn't what I meant."

Bradley ignored me, and took a turn from the window to pour himself a brandy. I noticed he did not offer one to me.

"Do you know who is helping Lestrade? Have you asked him?" I pressed.

"Ask him?" Bradley spluttered, near choking on his drink. "He would deny it! Furthermore, it would only alert him to our suspicions. The fact is, Mr Holmes, these petty 'successes', whilst very worthy, have come at great cost. Whilst he has been claiming the credit with these minor cases, others have been slipping through the net. More important cases too. I thought it was just coincidence at first, but now I suspect, no, I _know_ that Lestrade has been keeping our attention diverted from crimes of importance."

"Such as?"

"The attempted murder of a Member of Parliament. A diplomatic letter purloined from the Foreign Office and hawked to the highest bidder. Ten thousand gold bars stolen from a ship in the Solent. A Van Dyck taken from the private gallery of Viscount Launceston in broad daylight. Counterfeit Italian bank notes exchanged for bullion in–"

I interrupted him. "Forgive me, Commissioner, a Van Dyck?"

"Yes, a portrait head of the Martyr King Charles. Worth a small fortune."

I might have been wrong – I hoped I was – but the theft of a painting and the audacity of the deed sounded rather like the handiwork of my cousin, Miles.

"What you say could point to Lestrade's guilt, but you have other detectives," I said. "And your evidence is circumstantial. One would hope the justice system requires more than coincidence for a conviction."

"Innocent until proven guilty, you mean." Bradley grunted. He downed his drink and grimaced. "Well, yes, perhaps I am hasty in condemning him. But coupled with the subject of his finances, my doubts become certainties."

He saw my expression and continued.

"What we pay our inspectors should be enough to give them a decent living and keep them from temptation. I dare say some may, with good judgement and careful accounting, have a little left over for a rainy day. But what am I supposed to think when I hear reports of internal water closets, the gas being laid on and the purchase of prize-winning ferrets? The man lives in Bethnal Green, for heaven's sake!"

Bradley's face had grown red again, as his grievances rose to a crescendo. "Then there was that drunken spectacle last night. Well, you were there, I don't need to tell you. No doubt it's why you're here today. You must have had your suspicions."

It crossed my mind to ask how he had known of my presence in the public house, and decided one of the inspector's colleagues had informed the Commissioner. I discounted the brother-in-law, George. I was unclear about his occupation, although I was sure he did not share Lestrade's profession. How I knew, I could not say, save for a vague feeling that his appearance and demeanour was more suited to a gaming house than a court house. That left a fellow officer, and it said much for the Yard's low opinion of Lestrade's behaviour, when even his own were willing to turn him in.

I almost pitied him, almost as much as he had pitied me when he had seen me fail in a simple test of observation and deduction. The difference was that I held his fate in my hands, whereas he knew nothing of my predicament. I wondered how he would have received that news. Probably not well. Had I been in his position, I should not have wanted my future decided by the word of an addled amateur, who was struggling to stay awake at 11 o'clock on weekday morning. He deserved better. Unfortunately, I appeared to be all he had.

As for my suspicions, I wanted to trust to Lestrade's tale of good fortune. Believing was easier than facing the possibility that I had misjudged the man from the very first. Whether I could accept his unparalleled success at the races as being nothing more than luck was another matter. The number of men ruined by slow horses and large debts outnumbered the winners in their thousands. I found myself agreeing with Bradley that something was amiss; quite what that was, however, eluded me.

"Have you considered," I suggested instead, "that his new-found wealth could be as a result of his being hired by private firms or individuals? It is allowed, I understand, under the Metropolitan Police Act of 1839."

"So it is," said Bradley grudgingly. "No, I hadn't considered it. You'll have to ask his immediate superior, Chief Inspector James Matthews."

I made a note of the name. "Does he know of your suspicions?"

Bradley nodded. "He has been keeping Lestrade under observation at my insistence. You may speak with him freely."

"What is his opinion?"

"He takes your view. He says the men under his command are irreproachable, and won't hear a word said against them."

It was gratifying to hear that Lestrade had at least one ally. Furthermore, the interview had emboldened me enough to test one of my tentative deductions, and as I rose from my chair, I nodded the framed religious needlework text on the wall behind his desk.

"A little faith, Commissioner, can go a long way. Perhaps if you trusted in your men as much as in your Maker, you might be less inclined to see their faults and more of their virtues."

He followed my gaze, puzzled, until he saw the object of my attention. The words, _In God We Trust_, embroidered in red Gothic letters on a yellowing linen ground, decorated around the edges with indistinguishable flowers of blue and lilac.

"Ah, that is my mother-in-law's doing," said he. "I only keep it there to please the wife."

Too late, I saw now the coating of dust on the glass and several large chips to the edge of the wooden frame. No prized possession this; it was there to be tolerated, not to inspire. I tried not to look too disappointed in myself.

"And as to my convictions, Mr Holmes," said he firmly, "I rank the men of Scotland Yard amongst the finest in the world. The public despise them, yet expect them to risk their lives in their service. What other profession demands so much for so little respect? Which is why I will not permit anyone to sully their name, whether from inside or outside the Force. Do I make myself clear?"

With that, he returned to his desk and took up his pen.

"Good day to you, Mr Holmes," said he, not looking up. "I shall expect your report within the week."

"Two weeks," I replied. I needed time to ease myself back into the role of detective, that is, if I still could do so. "You have delayed this long, Commissioner. Another week will hardly make any difference."

He fixed me with an unfriendly eye and sighed. "Very well, two weeks it is. If you have nothing by that time, I shall take what action I see fit."

I did not demur. If I could not produce something in that time, it would be time to stop pretending that I was an unofficial consulting detective and take up sweeping the streets for a living.

If I thought I had escaped lightly, however, the cruel fates had decided that my humiliation was not complete. As I was heading for the door, I heard Bradley's bored voice behind me.

"Oh, and give your brother my congratulations."

I hesitated on the threshold. "Congratulations?"

"Yes," he said impatiently, "on his engagement. Doesn't he tell you anything?"

* * *

_**No, I don't think he does! So, Lestrade involved in dodgy dealings, Mycroft getting married, Sherlock Holmes getting his deductions wrong – it's a mess and no mistake!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Three!**_

* * *

[1] Also known as the 'Turf Fraud Scandal' of 1877. The first trial resulted in the conviction of four forgers. The second trial saw several senior officers convicted of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice. The Criminal Investigation Department (CID) was created in 1878 as a reorganisation of Scotland Yard's detective division. For those interested, there is a full transcript of the detectives' trial available online.


	4. Chapter 3

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Three: Odds On?  
**

"What do you mean, you're getting married?"

I had bearded Mycroft in what was rapidly becoming his den of choice. I had not expected to find him in residence at so early an hour in the day. Something extraordinary must have occurred to make him break his usual routine, which led me to believe that there was truth in the Commissioner's story. When his attempts at silencing me had proved unsuccessful, he had chivvied me into the Stranger's Room and closed the door against the prying ears of staff and members alike.

"What is it about that statement you fail to understand?" said he. "Do sit down, Sherlock. This restless pacing of yours is tiring to watch."

So saying, he slumped into an over-stuffed armchair. It sagged under his weight and I fancied I heard the floorboards squeak. He had gained another twelve pounds since I had last seen him and was well on his way to corpulence, whereas I had lost a similar sum. To look at us, a casual observer might doubt our family connection, with one portly, the other lean, and both careworn by our own troubles.

"Marriage, Mycroft?" I remained standing. My lofty position was about the one advantage I had over my brother at this point. "Don't tell me it had slipped your mind."

He scowled at me, and dabbed at his brow with a voluminous white handkerchief. "Of course it hadn't. If you must know, I neglected to tell you because I was certain that you would not attend."

"My brother's wedding? Your reasoning is faulty, Mycroft."

"To be honest, Sherlock, I thought you would be dead."

"Thought? Or hoped?"

I regretted my words. Mycroft had his faults, but fratricide was not among them. His methods were far subtler than that.

"It may surprise you to hear, brother," said he, "that the reports I received of you were not favourable. The doctors I sent to attend you were certain that you were not long for this world. A wasting disease, one told me, whilst another thought it brain fever of a pernicious variety. Telling you seemed unnecessary in the circumstances."

"Your sensibilities do you credit, Mycroft."

"Yet you have survived, despite their assurances to the contrary. What _was_ wrong with you exactly?"

From the way he said it, I fancied he already knew. "Nothing which has not passed in the fullness of time."

He was clearly unsatisfied by this answer, as I had been by his. "As you say," said he. "At least you were well enough to see the Commissioner of Police. He has been hounding me for an answer these last few months. I trust the interview was satisfactory."

"Indeed. I have told him I will look into the business."

Mycroft grunted. "Of course you did. I never doubted your enthusiasm for a mystery."

"I believe Lestrade to be innocent."

"Do you? Well, you would be the only one. I shall not comment on what that says for your judgement."

"I find the mystery of your forthcoming marriage to be more perplexing," I returned. "Who is the lady?"

"The eldest daughter of the Earl of Roselynn, Lady Blanche Alderwood."

I tried to stifle my amazement. Lady Blanche had been the subject of much admiration at her presentation at court last year, even earning the approval of the Queen for her demure demeanour and fresh countenance. The popular press had lauded her as the most radiant beauty that the West Country ever produced. Suitors had flocked to her side, and each had been dismissed in turn. That Mycroft had won her hand either made him the luckiest man in England or the lady the most foolish.

"I see you are surprised, Sherlock," said Mycroft, watching as I near fell into the seat opposite.

"No, Mycroft, surprised is not an adequate description. Indeed, I am _shocked_."

"Why?"

I did not know where to start. "She is the daughter of an Earl. You are not her social equal. You will be called an upstart."

"Our ancestors had some degree of gentility. It is an acceptable match."

"You have no money."

Mycroft shrugged lightly. "Nor does she. Her father, Lord Roselynn, is on his uppers, so I understand, due to his fancy for the Turf. His estate in Cornwall is mortgaged to the hilt, and his creditors are pressing him hard. Lady Blanche has a small income of two hundred pounds, rising to three hundred on her marriage."

"What of the title and lands?"

"Succession is by heirs-male of the body." Mycroft paused and fixed me with a quizzical look as though he thought I had failed to understand. "Through the male line only, Sherlock. I am not about to marry into a title." [1]

"Yes, I know what agnatic succession is. Who is the beneficiary?"

"A distant cousin. Lord Shadwell."

I inwardly suppressed a groan. I knew the Viscount Shadwell from my university days. An unpleasant youth had grown into an unpleasant man, a violent bully with a wellspring of disdain for those he considered beneath him. Rumour had it that he never paid a bill and took pleasure from seeing those who had extended him credit brought to the brink of ruination. He had been less than complimentary about me during our time in halls, and I did not relish renewing the acquaintance.

"Then what do you stand to gain from this marriage?" I asked.

I discounted the possibility of this being a match born from love on either side. Ingrained habit and an unsociable nature made Mycroft a distinctly unattractive marriage partner. Knowing him as I did, I suspected that he had been tempted by more than a pretty face.

"The lady is not without connections," said he.

"You already have connections, so you keep telling me."

"Very well then, if you must know, the Prime Minister considered it appropriate. He prefers his advisors to be married men."

"That seems a most peculiar requirement."

Mycroft considered. "Many leaders of men have expressed certain preferences in those they trust. Caesar would only countenance the portly for his company. He thought the 'lean and hungry look' of young Cassius to be a warning of danger."

"He was also wary of those who thought too much. I fear you would not have found favour solely based on your girth, Mycroft."

"Then I am fortunate the Prime Minister is not Caesar. As for Lady Blanche…" Mycroft fidgeted and took a long time to make himself comfortable. "I knew the lady to be in some difficulty. That is why I have today obtained a special licence. Her father thought the ceremony should take place without delay."

I felt my eyebrows rising. Today was clearly one for revelations. I had underestimated my brother; the family had entertained a budding Casanova in its ranks unawares. I tried to envisage him in the role of the great lover, and found it as incongruous an image as any could imagine.

"Do not look at me like that," he chided, seeing my expression. "It is not what you think."

"I would hope not."

"The lady was frustrated in love. An unsuitable suitor, so I understand, who made her certain assurances and then changed his mind. You will appreciate that this, coupled with her family's beleaguered finances, has lessened her chances of a good match. Her father was keen for her to be married off after this disappointment, and the Prime Minister suggested me as a suitable candidate."

"Why?" I pressed.

He pursed his lips. "If you must know, I am the only bachelor of suitable standing of his acquaintance. Really, Sherlock, what is the purpose of all these questions? Pass me the snuff? I am feeling a little faint."

"That does not surprise me."

"Again, brother, you assume. I am not as averse to marriage as you may think. Indeed, I am led to believe that it has its compensations, and I dare say that it should not interfere too much with my routine. The problem, especially for you, Sherlock, is the question of my finances. I have already had to find the cost of the special licence this morning – twenty-eight guineas is not trifling matter, let me assure you. I fancy it shall not be the last of my expenses. There is a home to consider, and the finding of servants. Such necessities are not inexpensive. Which brings me to your upkeep."

He took a pinch of snuff and sighed deeply. "That is better," said he. "My interview with the Archbishop was most trying. It was only at the mention of the Prime Minister's name that he granted the licence at all. There was much talk of 'marrying in haste, and repenting at leisure'."

"Sound advice."

His eye fell on me in most unbrotherly fashion. "In haste or in leisure, my dear boy, the problem remains. In a very short time, I shall have a wife and household, and you shall cease to be my concern. Three hundred a year and my small stipend will not go far towards defraying our expenses, and I certainly shall not be able to bear the expense of your rent and living. What are your plans for the future, Sherlock, if you have any?"

From his tone, I fancied he had something in mind. "I have a case, if you have forgotten."

"And after that?"

"I shall have to shift for myself."

Mycroft shook his head in desultory fashion. "Sherlock, unaccustomed as you are to the notion of money in exchange for a day's labour, I suggest you familiarise yourself with the concept. It will serve you well in the years to come. As it happens, there is an opening at the Home Office for a candidate of your abilities."

"No," I said firmly.

"Then you must marry."

"According to you, I have no prospects."

"You come from a good, if eccentric, branch of the English gentry. I am about to marry the daughter of an Earl. Your prospects may be better than you think."

"You know my thoughts on that subject. I believed they were shared, but now I see I was wrong."

"Then you must take a lover. The Dowager Countess of Woodcote is looking for a companion to ease her autumn years. If you could make yourself agreeable, she would gladly bear the cost of your living expenses."

The passage of many years has yet to diminish Mycroft's ability to produce the most outrageous of suggestions. I have never been entirely sure what direction his agile mind will take from one moment to the next, and any attempt at outwitting him has ever been confounded. If he found disappointment in my choice of occupation, I could say the same of his. What the British Government gained was a grievous loss to society at large. Mycroft was one of most original free-thinkers of my acquaintance. In many ways, he was born too late. He had missed his vocation as an Illuminati, and his vast store of wisdom was reserved only for hapless ministers and his grudging younger sibling, the one unworthy of it, the other not wanting it.

As for his current suggestion, not only was it unseemly, it was beneath my dignity.

"Beggars cannot be choosers," said he at my refusal. "And a beggar is what you will be if you continue in this vein. Well, that is an end of it. I have tried my best. All I can suggest is that since you are already working for the Government by looking into this little matter at the Yard, you make the position permanent."

"I am not working for the Government," I corrected him. "If anyone, I am working for Lestrade."

"Will he defray your expenses?" asked Mycroft, in mock innocence. "But then, perhaps I underestimate him. He was able to celebrate the birth of his latest offspring in fine style last night. Would that we were all as prosperous as your erstwhile inspector." His expression darkened. "I thought I told you to keep your distance."

"I did. My meeting with Lestrade was–"

"Unfortunate."

"Fortuitous," I said instead.

"Meaning that what you saw was enough to rouse you from your stupor to investigate the case. Well, you may have your fling, Sherlock, but remember what great-uncle Ganymede used to say."

"Do you mean 'where there's muck, there's brass'? I hardly see the relevance to my situation, Mycroft."

"No, the other one," said he with impatience. "About being careful of the company you keep. He often said that 'when you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas'. And he would have known; he was never without a pack of hounds at his heels."

"Yes, great-uncle Ganymede was a fount of information, most of it useless."

"The sentiment is sound, even if the same could not be said of our poor relation. It was he who pronounced before your birth that you would be a girl. He never forgave you for proving him wrong. He said you did it to spite him." The smile of remembrance that came to Mycroft's face was anything but warm. "You know, Sherlock, I can't help but wonder how my life would have been if you had been my sister. But for a simple twist of fate, my life could have been so much easier. As it is, you have caused me no end of grief, from cradle to... exactly _how_ old are you now?"

"Twenty-five."

"Old enough to have acquired some sense and taken my good advice. At least I won't have the worry of you in this minor police affair. Proving Lestrade guilty won't require you to get yourself stabbed or hanged. And since you are back with us in the land of the living and otherwise unoccupied," he continued before I could interject, "you may as well accompany me this evening. Lord Roselynn is holding a small gathering tonight for our respective families. Certain of our cousins will be there, and I fear we will not create the best of impressions if the stage is left to them alone. As my only close kin, I would be obliged if you would attend."

In all my years, I had never heard Mycroft make so obvious an appeal. I was used to being ordered, threatened and manipulated, but never asked. This was something new, and it put me on my guard. I had learned to be wary of my brother when he tried different tactics on me. Invariably, some cruel and unusual punishment followed.

"What will be required of me?"

"Simply that you make an appearance at Roselynn's residence at Eaton Square at 8 o'clock. If could make yourself amenable, I'm sure my fiancée would appreciate the gesture."

I rose to my feet. "I will be there, if you wish it."

Mycroft nodded in thanks. "I would ask you to be my 'Best Man', as tradition has it, but the position is already taken. The Prime Minister insisted."

"Of course he did. Since you have sold him your soul, best that he is at your side when you give it away." I ignored his scowl. "When is the ceremony?"

"The Saturday after Ascot."

The choice of day was interesting. "Who marries on a Saturday these days? I hear it is increasingly frowned upon."

"I do," Mycroft returned. "It was the only date that suited both the vicar and my future father-in-law. He has a horse running in the Albert Stakes on the Friday apparently, and wants to be there for race. Anyway, what's wrong with a Saturday?"

" '_Marry Friday, marry for losses; Marry Saturday, no luck at all_'," I said, quoting the old saying. "Where will this 'happy' event take place?"

"The church of St Augustine, Watling Street. The vicar is a friend of the Prime Minister, which is fortunate for me, as our cousin Endymion was threatening to offer his services. I expect he will still be smarting from the slight when we see him tonight."

I understood why he needed my presence. Any social gathering was a trial; the added complication of our egregious cousins was enough to try the patience of the saints.

"Will his brother be there?" I inquired.

"Peregrine cannot make it. But of course that is not who you meant," said Mycroft disdainfully. "No, Miles has not been invited."

In some ways, his presence would have been preferable. Miles was many things, but he had no equal in a social setting. I had seen him charm the pugnacious and seduce the unprepossessing. A little of his particular brand of flattery would have worked to our advantage during the long evening to come.

"Tonight, Sherlock," said Mycroft, as I took my leave. "Try not to be late."

I confirmed that I would do my best not to be tardy. However, Mycroft was not finished with his orders.

"You do have evening dress? Good. You will try to look like you were born to it, won't you?"

"Any other instructions?" I said, testily.

"Exercise a little restraint in your deductions. What passes as mildly amusing in our circle may be considered uncouth by Lord Roselynn. Oh, and Sherlock, if he asks, which he will, I told them you having been working in Whitehall. Don't disillusion him."

"Generous of you, Mycroft. Is there any other part of my life you wish to govern?"

He took out a sovereign and tossed it to me. "Get a proper shave. You look like you've been hacking at your whiskers with scissors. I'll not have my brother disparaged for his lack of grooming."

I left, the coin burning a hole in my pocket and my mind disturbed with the thought that I had missed something in the course of our conversation. On reflection, Mycroft had seemed subdued. The usual bluster and pomposity had been missing. For the first time ever, he had appeared vulnerable. It was troubling, and I did not know what to make of the change in him. I would have almost described him as dejected, an emotion not normally to be found in my brother's usual rational disposition.

Outside, on a London street washed clean by the endless slanting rain, I consulted my notebook. The date of the ceremony was in a little over two weeks. Time enough to discover Mycroft's real motives for this unlikely match, and to exonerate Lestrade from the false charges laid against him. Or time to fail hopelessly on both counts and bear witness to the descent of several lives into misery. On some level, I found myself relishing the challenge; on another, I could not countenance the consequences of defeat. It was a rare glimpse into the dilemma that faced the ordinary man on a daily basis, both terrifying and exhilarating.

As for me, I turned my collar against the rain and headed for home. It was going to be a busy fortnight.

* * *

_**If you thought Mycroft's engagement was a hoax, are you convinced now?**_

_**So, gents, dust off your frock coats; ladies, don your diamonds and finest dresses – we're off to a party!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Four!**_

* * *

[1] To this day, most earldoms are not inheritable by women, although there are some notable exceptions.


	5. Chapter 4

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Four: The Parade Ring**

I arrived at Eaton Square with five minutes to spare. Respectable, perhaps not as fashionable as nearby Mayfair, the house was very much like its fellows: a classical frontage with a columned entrance and balcony, steps to the front door, several floors with an attic storey, and a footman in attendance.

On first inspection, there was little to differentiate it from every other that clustered around the gated garden enclosure. Looking closer, however, the footman's livery had seen better days, the paint was peeling on the Ionic columns of the portico, the steps had sprouted weeds where they met the pavement and several windows in uppermost level where the servants had their quarters appeared to be blocked with drooping paper.

This confirmed what Mycroft had said about the Earl's finances. It was also pleasing to note that my skills had not entirely deserted me, for clearly I was still capable of observing and drawing inferences. That those inferences were so obvious that a chamber maid could have made them to confirm details which were already known was a secondary consideration. That I was not entirely devoid of imagination was reward enough. Victories, however small, are still victories, and I, adjusting my expectations accordingly, was content to be, like Pope's child, "_pleased with a rattle, tickled with straw_".

I doubted I would be so readily pleased with the rest of the evening. Social gatherings had never been encouraged in our wider family circle. A clutch of irritable intellects confined in the same room did not make for easy company. The exception was cousin Miles, who had found his natural environment in the sea of fawning and flattering that such occasions demand. For the good of a case, however, I had been willing to allow him to inculcate me with his art. It had been a rough training. The experiment had failed to some extent, although in the process I had acquired the veneer of a social butterfly, if not the manner. Unlike our ancestors, the thought of dining with strangers was not to bring me to the brink of insanity nor send me scuttling away in terror to lock myself in the coal shed.

Besides, I was intrigued. Lucifer himself would not have kept me away that night.

Mycroft too would approve of my appearance. Following his strict orders, my hair had been trimmed and I had been shaved as closely as humanly possible without having one's throat cut. I had the clothes Miles had provided for me, and with a little adjustment to the belt on the waistcoat and a pin in the trouser band, they seemed to fit me well enough. It was a costume, like any other, and a part I could play with ease, thanks to my reprehensible cousin.

What I did not anticipate was the dizziness that struck me as I attempted to alight from the hansom nor the stomach cramps that twisted my insides into knots. The footman had to help me down and it was a good minute or so before the wave of nausea passed and I was able to stand on my own two feet. By the time I entered the residence, my hands were trembling and my brow was glistening with moisture.

Whatever the Earl's financial concerns, this evening he had allowed the full use of the gas-lamps to show the faded setting in its best light. The servants had done their best to remove the dust from the glittering chandeliers, so that each facet gave the line of racing portraits of once-owned horses a glint to the eye as the light caught the undulating surface of the oil paint.

I was shaken out of my reverie by the butler, Rudge, an uncompromising man in his fifties, greying at the temples, with a fierce hooked nose and the demeanour of a sergeant-major. He approached with the sort of look he usually reserved for tradesmen who had the temerity to call at the front door, and took a cursory look at my card before passing it back to me.

"Mr Shelrock Holmes," he announced as we entered the drawing room. I scarcely had time to correct his interpretation of my name before he backed out and left me to the gaze of the gathering.

There were five of them. The Prime Minister I knew from past acquaintance, and the Home Secretary, Lord Preston, from his portrait in the newspapers. The saturnine man to his left was unfamiliar to me, which left only Mycroft and an ebullient red-faced man, who I took to be his future father-in-law, the Earl of Roselynn.

Miles had taught me that if one is to make an entrance, then it should be a bold one. I fear I failed on that account, for I had the strange sensation of being on show, like a prize heifer at market. I heard someone mutter '_the younger brother_' before Lord Roselynn and Mycroft came forward to put me out of my misery.

Lord Roselynn, a shabbily-dressed man, past middle-age and portly with buttons straining across the front of his waistcoat, sported a full beard streaked with grey. His full face had the red puffiness and broken veins of a man more accustomed to the outdoor life. His manner was hearty enough, if a trifle forced, and the smile and hand he extended to me were over-enthusiastic as if to compensate for their owner's lack of social grace.

"Mr Holmes, come in, sir, come in. I was delighted when Mycroft said you were coming."

"The pleasure is all mine," I replied graciously.

"Not at all," said Lord Roselynn. "We don't stand on ceremony here. Welcome to the family. Now your brother tells me you've been ill, and by heavens, don't you look it! Good clean country air is what you need, my boy, none of this London muck clogging your lungs. I never bring my fillies to town for that very reason." He thumped me on the back, near propelling me across the room. "Come, let me introduce you."

Lord Roselynn went ahead, leaving me under Mycroft's critical gaze.

"I trust I meet with your approval," I said to him.

"Yes, you look very good," he grunted, almost grudgingly, as if annoyed at being denied the opportunity of brotherly censure. "Why are you perspiring like a farmyard animal? You aren't trying to embarrass me, are you?"

"Not deliberately, at least."

"In _any_ way," he warned, ushering me towards the gathering. "I have enough to worry about with the presence of Endymion and his lamentable sister. Ah, Prime Minister, you know my brother of course."

The elder statesman bowed his head in acknowledgement. He was greyer than last we met and stooped, as though he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. A stringy man well into his dotage, he bestowed upon me a smile broad enough to rearrange his features into a new complexity of folds and wrinkles. We had good reason to remember each other, and better reason not to mention it.

Lord Preston appeared less worn, and, from what I knew of him from the popular press, he was a man of thwarted ambition, believing himself destined for things greater than a subservient position to one he considered a lesser statesman. Thin-faced and acerbic, his greeting was curt and indifferent, as though it was a matter of the greatest distaste to him. I suspected that, as the Commissioner of Police had said, the Home Secretary did not associate socially with those he regarded as mere underlings. I said nothing beyond the expected formalities. It was not necessary to refer to the business which lay between us, and certainly not whilst I was under my brother's watchful eye.

Rather it was the other man who held my interest. In his early forties, he had a thin face and dark whiskers that framed his narrow jaw-line. His eyes were intense and searching, and above his thin brows, his hair had receded making his forehead seem unusually high. He was introduced to me as Colonel Ambrose Malpas, with no other reason for his presence that than he was one of Mycroft's colleagues. I hesitated to describe him as an acquaintance, for at my side I felt Mycroft stiffen at the mere mention his name.

His grasp was forceful when he shook my hand, enough to make the bones grind together in my fingers.

"Mr Holmes," said he. "A pleasure to meet you at last. I have heard much about you."

"I fear I cannot return the compliment," I said, freeing myself from his grasp. "Mycroft tells me nothing."

"I should jolly well hope not," snorted Lord Preston. "Discretion is the watchword of the British Government, _as I would remind you_," he added pointedly.

The Prime Minister waved him aside. "We are amongst friends tonight, Preston. And with rare cause for celebration in these trying times. The marriage of two young people is always a cause for hope." His eye fell kindly upon me. "Perhaps with one brother headed down the aisle, the younger may follow."

"Few fathers would consider me a worthy suitor for their daughters' hands. I do not have my brother's natural advantages."

I hoped they would not press me on what those advantages were, for I could not say. I did not flatter Mycroft in imagining that he had hidden depths, but on such an occasion one is supposed to say something encouraging about the groom.

"Mycroft is a good sort," said Lord Roselynn amiably. "I'm sure he'll make my daughter very happy. Dash it all, where is the girl?"

As if on cue, the doors opened, and Lady Blanche Alderwood entered [1]. She was all her society portraits had promised. Raven-haired and velvet-eyed, she had the natural grace of a dancer and the saddest expression it has ever been my misfortune to see on the newly-betrothed. I trusted it was not all my brother's doing; that she was accompanied by our cousins Endymion and his sister, Evadne, may have had something to do with her evident misery. Behind them trailed a younger woman of perhaps seventeen or eighteen years, who I took to be the other sister.

"A most delightful garden," Endymion was enthusing. "The pelargoniums were fine, but I cannot help but think that the delphinium is a most ungodly flower. I will have none of them at the vicarage. I never see flowers than I think of the _Song of Solomon_: '_A garden enclosed is my sister, a spring shut up, a fountain sealed_'. Chastity is a virtue to be encouraged in all young women, as my own sister would agree."

Into this indelicate soliloquy, he paused to include Evadne, who smiled and nodded. A year younger than me, I remembered her as being an inconsequential creature, who followed around on her brothers' coat-tails like a devoted puppy. She had inherited the long features of our family and had coupled it with her mother's pronounced chin, so that her face seemed almost out of proportion. Beside the Alderwood sisters, she appeared dowdy, in her fusty country dress of green lace and frills in a style that had fallen out of favour in town some years before. I felt for her, especially when her brother refused her even the simple courtesy of letting her speak.

"Of course she does," he continued boorishly. "Would that all women were so abstemious. It is advice I press regularly onto my own flock. But they will have it otherwise. Still, as the Good Book tells us: '_If they cannot contain, let them marry: for it is better to marry than to burn_'."

By the end of this discourse, general embarrassment had descended upon the room. Endymion had never been known for his tact, and on this occasion he had excelled himself. He regarded us down the length of his patrician nose, nostrils flaring like a belligerent bull, daring us to challenge him. Since I was under strict orders to behave myself, I kept my silence and left Mycroft to stew.

In the event, it was the Prime Minister who came to our rescue, neatly deflecting the situation. "Tell me, Vicar," said he, "how is that brother of yours?"

"Peregrine is well, though too easily impressed by the past for my liking," said Endymion. "He would have been here tonight but for a pile of bones that turned up in Hampshire, somewhere called Bedlam Bottom." He snorted disdainfully. "He tells me they are _significant_ to the understanding of some such era or another. But I say he should look to the future, to the state of his own soul, as should we all."

"Actually, I meant your elder brother," pressed the Prime Minister. "I met him once, a most congenial fellow, as I recall."

"I have no other brother," said Endymion, scorn bleeding from every syllable.

"Oh, Miles is well," spoke up Evadne. "When last I heard from him, he was in Florence. He wrote to say–"

"He is a stain upon the face of the Earth," her brother spat, cutting her short. "There is none born so low."

"I rather liked him," spoke up the younger Alderwood sister, somewhat wistfully. "He had beautiful manners."

"The Devil's children _are_ beautiful," said Endymion. "Think yourself lucky, my dear, that the Good Lord has spared you and your sister that particular burden."

As remarks went, in this instance it was as far from the truth as a man was ever likely to be. Fair where her sister was dark, her eyes were the colour of the storm-tossed ocean and similarly clouded with indignation. Ire did not mar her features, but rather enhanced them, bringing a steel to her delicate features, which would otherwise have been merely pleasing rather than interesting.

I had no doubt the lady was equal to the task of speaking up for herself, but from the look she gave her father, I ventured that she was under the same severe stricture as myself.

"Ah, I don't think you've met my daughters, Mr Holmes," said he, addressing me. "Lady Blanche and her younger sister, Lady Hester."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Holmes," said Lady Hester when we had been introduced, although her expression was anything but warm. "I trust you do not share your cousin's views."

"Far from it, my lady. Why should the Devil have the best of it?"

Her icy demeanour thawed a little, and a faint smile touched the corners of her mouth.

"Cousin Sherlock has been compromised by his association with my elder sibling, Lady Hester," said Endymion unhelpfully. "You cannot trust anything he says. The effect has been pernicious. It appears to have drained his vitality."

"Gracious, Vicar, whatever did your poor brother do to lose your favour? I should be ashamed to speak of my own sister so."

"Over familiarity, I'm afraid to say. These are trying times, my dear. Why, I have seen the dead walk upon among us. Cousin Sherlock would have it otherwise, but one cannot deny the evidence of one's own eyes."

"Oh, and where was this?"

"Why, in Jermyn Street of all places." His nostrils flared a little wider. "It proves what I have always believed, that all is vanity and vexation of spirit."

We were straying into dangerous waters. Endymion was preparing to lecture us on his encounter with the late, unlamented Vamberry, a subject which had cost less wary men their lives and others their careers. Throttling our cousin would have been satisfying, but changing the subject was easier.

"Lord Roselynn," I interjected, "I understand you are a racing man."

The Earl's face lit up. From the framed racing silks of thirty years earlier to the scattered trophies about the room, it was an elementary deduction to conclude that this was a subject in which he delighted, to the ruination of his family and against his own better judgement.

"Indeed I do, sir, indeed I do. The Earls of Roselynn have had horses since man first laid a wager on the outcome of a contest between two steeds. Why, in the early days, I rode in a few outings myself over the sticks. The best time of my life, my boy, bar none. If you're interested, I've got a little filly running at the Albert Stakes in a fortnight's time. You come to Ascot with us, Mr Holmes, and we'll roar her home, then we'll see these two young people wed on the morrow. Now what do you say to that?"

I should have said that I could imagine no worse means of idling away my time. Instead I was interrupted the arrival of the final guest. Evidently a favourite of the household, the butler announced him, managing to get his name correct as he had failed to do for me, and bowed obsequiously to this newcomer. Lord Roselynn too was unnaturally pleased to see him, and ushered him over. I did not need the introduction; I knew the Viscount Shadwell from past and unpleasant experience. Ours had not been an easy association during our years at university.

"Well, well," said he, eyeing me critically, "I thought I recognised the name. Yes, upon my soul, Sherlock Holmes. What was it we called you? Ah, yes, 'Dotty' Holmes."

It was a small mercy that the others were talking amongst themselves. Still, I caught the stifled sound of girlish laughter from Lady Hester, and then noticed out of the corner of my eye that Lord Preston was paying rather too much attention to our conservation.

"How are you keeping?" Shadwell went on. "Not well from the look of you. Living by your wits not proving profitable? If it _ever_ did. I always thought you were a fraud."

Age had not improved him. Balding and stouter than I remembered, what had not changed was his pomposity or his seething hatred. It had much to do with the fact that I had once caught him out in a lie about the real author of one of his submitted essays. That, and his instinctive dislike of anyone who had more intelligence than he had, had firmly coloured his opinion of me. His only redeeming grace in the eyes of society was that he was moneyed; coupled with a title, it meant that people were more forgiving of his foibles than they would the average man in the street.

Unhappily, this had meant he had been marginally more popular than me, and thus other students had been more willing to listen to his opinion than mine. The exception had been those fellows like Victor Trevor who were as friendless as I was.

Normally, his gibes and belittlements did not bother me, and I could easily match him word for word. However, with my insides running hot and cold and my grip on my ability to concentrate failing, I was below par and struggling not to show it.

"I'm not sure I'm altogether happy with your family sniffing around my cousins. Your ancestors may have been with William at Hastings, but the same could be said of my horse. Damn bunch of vulgarians the lot of you. Especially that cousin of yours – Miles, is it? I lost a packet to him on the gaming tables. I was sure he was cheating; couldn't prove it though."

Whatever his faults, Miles could always be counted on to cut the pompous down to size. I felt myself warming to the old reprobate all over again.

"Defamation is still an offence in this country," I countered.

"You ever were an arrogant little sod," he sneered. "What my cousin sees in your brother God only knows. I always knew her judgement was compromised, even allowing for her sex, but this takes the biscuit. First, the American, and now your popinjay of a brother. Mind you, who else would have her? A pretty face only goes so far when the pockets are empty."

"Fortunately, some value character more than financial worth."

"Then they're damnable fools! Beauty doesn't pay the bills." A salacious grin plucked at the corners of his mouth. "Well, it might, under _some_ circumstances."

My rush to the lady's defence was forestalled by the arrival of Lady Hester. Her eloquent expression told she had heard all and was less than impressed.

"Cousin George," she said icily. "I can't allow you to monopolise Mr Holmes all night. We are already short of _gentlemen_." At that moment, the butler rang the bell for dinner. Lady Hester slipped her arm through mine. "Will you escort me in?"

I duly obliged and we left Lord Shadwell seething in our wake.

"Odious man," said she, when we had put some distance between us.

"I cannot disagree."

"Good. Then we shall get along very well." For the first time, she smiled broadly in genuine good-humour. "But for now, as my father insists, '_keep up appearances whatever you do_'."

"You are a follower of Dickens, my lady?"

She considered. "Not particularly. He has a way with words, however. I have long held with Mr Micawber's sentiment that '_something will turn up_'. I have yet to be disappointed."

I could have wished I shared her simple faith. With Lord Shadwell on one hand and Endymion on the other, it was going to be a very long evening indeed.

* * *

**_Not exactly going well, is it? And poor Mr Holmes, he's not well. I wonder what's wrong with him…_**

**_Join us at the dinner table – only six courses to go!_**

**_Continued in Chapter Five!_**

* * *

[1] English Peerage titles have a lot of rules attached to them. The father, the Earl of Roselynn, is addressed as Lord Roselynn in conversation, while his daughters take the family surname of Alderwood and use their first name in the title, thus 'Lady Blanche Alderwood'. Similarly the Viscount Shadwell becomes 'Lord Shadwell'.


	6. Chapter 5

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Five: Dark Horse**

"There's nothing wrong with the food, Mr Holmes."

I had been aware, Lady Hester, seated to my left, had been watching my half-hearted attempts to make it through the second entrée with growing curiosity. I had no appetite, and the company was not helping.

Our host had wisely seated Endymion at the end of the table, out of harm's way. To my chagrin, as I was closest, he presumed to occupy my time with long and earnest advice on how I should consider a career in the Church. Mycroft had been talking, clearly, and Endymion had not bothered to inquire whether I had indeed forsaken my former profession. Through the turtle soup, fish, the venison and now the duck, he had been relentless in his praise and satisfaction in his life as a clergyman.

This seemed to me not the spirit into which to enter into the world religious. Endymion was rather too much concerned with his own comforts that the state of the souls of his flock. He also professed ambitions of promotion, which seemed well-founded, as he had already been moved from several parishes to others with greater prospects. Either the bishop was blind to his faults, which I doubted, or he was employing the old stratagem of not allowing a bad apple to rest too long in one place lest he infect those around him.

Listening to him, I could not help but draw the comparison with his elder brother. What had made one permissive and the other prudish? What had driven Peregrine to his books and kept Evadne confined at home? I realised that there was much I did not know about my cousins. Perhaps it was best that way. I had thought I had known Mycroft. This grim farrago had proved that I did not know him at all.

As it was, I had deflected Endymion's advice and was employed instead in keeping his attention away from Colonel Malpas, who was seated opposite with Evadne. The Holmes family had been embarrassed enough for one night, without Endymion wading into another theological argument.

Lady Hester would not be denied, however, and I had to leave my cousin to his own lamentable devices to answer her question.

"The food is excellent, my lady. It is I who is at fault. I am not accustomed to such rich fare."

"Mr Holmes, you don't look like you are accustomed to eating at all. You give the appearance of one who lives on air and cigarettes." She checked herself. "Forgive me, that was intolerably rude. Your brother said you had been ill. This is hardly a convalescent diet." A faint blush had touched her cheeks. "He has been caring for you, I understand."

"Mycroft?" I could hardly suppress my surprise. I glanced across to find him staring at me from the other end of the table. "He sent physicians, if that qualifies."

"And you are quite recovered?"

"I have some way to go."

She appraised me critically. "Was it a mental aberration?"

"No, my lady, physical."

"You will excuse my interest, I am sure. My concern is only for my sister's happiness. Your family seem a little… _strange_."

"We prefer the word 'eccentric'."

"Yes, I'm sure you do. It conveys a sense of harmless unconventionality, which I fear your cousin Endymion lacks. You will excuse my bluntness, Mr Holmes," said she before I could think of anything sensible to say to defend our family name, "but what I am to think when your cousin has indicated there is insanity in your line? Come now, not even you can tell me that a man like your Cousin Cuthbert, who I am told believes his head to be on the wrong way, is without a spice of madness in his composition?"

It would have been hard to argue with her on that count. Except that I knew our cousin had his reasons.

"Cuthbert is probably the sanest of us," I replied. "He does nothing without good reason. Yes, he has made his belief about his head widely known. He has even taken to having his clothes made back-to-front. However, what you perceive as insanity, my lady, is nothing more than a ruse to keep his creditors from his door. Cuthbert is not a wealthy man; indeed, he is as impecunious as the rest of us. This does not stop him having expensive tastes, which he indulges immoderately. His peculiarities allow him to negotiate payment terms which work in his favour. He always settles his bills, eventually, but his creditors are reluctant to press him earlier or too hard. A man confined to an asylum cannot pay, after all."

"Then why do they do business with him?"

"In these trying times, who can refuse a customer, even the 'eccentric' ones?"

"Most ingenious," said she, clearly impressed. "Perhaps my father should try something of the sort. We are hopelessly in debt, as I am sure you have been told."

"I had heard rumours."

"Oh, they are more than rumours, Mr Holmes. We are forced to be resourceful. I have a small income, which has been a great help."

"I gather you write."

From where came that impression, I could not say. To know that something of my old perception still dwelt within my addled brain was reassuring, for Lady Hester seemed as surprised as I did.

"You know of my works then?"

"No. I deduced it." I did not elaborate on the enlargement above the top joint of the middle finger of her right hand where a pen had been pressed long enough to leave a permanent callous. No casual correspondent then, but rather a dedicated epistolist. To have mentioned the slight on the otherwise long slender fingers would have been ungentlemanly. I mentioned instead that no other occupation would have suited so eloquent a young lady.

"Hardly that, Mr Holmes," said she, brushing aside these poor attempts at flattery. " 'The Adventures of Lady Agatha at Harpington Hall' will never feature amongst the classics. As novels for children, they do well enough. I began writing when I was a small child, and the habit never left me. To preserve my father's dignity, I write under a pseudonym of course. The little money I receive from my poor efforts provide for the essentials and keep the bailiffs from our door. It also pays for 'Cathy'."

She saw my questioning look. "Father's racehorse, 'Catherine the Great'. She is mine in all but name. I saw her foaled. Father said women had no business owing horses, so I see to her upkeep but nothing more."

"This would be the horse running in the Albert Stakes?"

Lady Hester nodded. "I do not rate her chances, but father would have it. Do you ride, Mr Holmes?"

"It has been a while."

"I ride every morning at ten o'clock through Hyde Park. It is the one luxury I allow myself. It is my escape, my little freedom."

She made a show of taking a sip of wine to conceal the blush that had risen unbidden to her cheeks. I saw nothing in her statement to elicit such a response. Only when she spoke again did I realise the reason.

"I wish your cousin Miles could have attended this evening," said she. "I need him to steal something for me."

I almost choked. The footman, removing one plate and replacing it with another laden with plovers' eggs in aspic, hurried to my aid and gave me a hearty thump on the back. I restored my composure and found that Lady Hester was apologetic.

"Forgive me, I thought you knew," said she.

"I do," I admitted. "I didn't realise that other people did."

"About your cousin's talents? It is well known in certain circles. When my sister came of age, our father had neither the money nor the inclination to see to her 'coming out' [1]. Lady Fanthorpe told me Miles might help. I was never more pleased than when he stole my late mother's jewels from my bedroom."

"Pleased?"

"Of course. They were mine to do with as I pleased. Father did not approve, naturally, but he never approves of anything we do. He wanted sons, you see. Well, you would not understand, Mr Holmes. Your father had his heir and..."

"His spare?" I finished for her.

"Yes, although that word sounds harsh. As for my father, he never had much interest in us and did not see the point, to use his own words, 'in throwing good money away after bad'. So, yes, I used the insurance money to pay for Blanche's white silk presentation dress. She looked so beautiful. Lady Fanthorpe was her sponsor at court. I am indebted to Miles for that. He was very kind; he even he returned my mother's emerald necklace." She sighed reflectively and glanced over at her sister. "I hoped she would do well for herself. My sister has great charm. I thought that might be enough to make the gentleman overlook our financial shortcomings."

"I understand she had a suitor."

Lady Hester nodded. "She had many, but only Mr Arnold Cummings of Pennsylvania was undeterred by her lack of dowry. He owns several 'dry goods stores', as I understand they are called, and has made quite a small fortune for himself. I believed he loved my sister very much. He said once that he would take her as his wife even if all she had was the clothes she stood up in." A wistful look came to her face. "I think that's very romantic, don't you?"

"Events would suggest he changed his mind."

"He did indeed break off the engagement suddenly. There was no explanation. We really did not understand it. My father was pleased though. He never approved of Mr Cummings. He was in 'trade', you see; '_an upstart shopkeeper_' is what father called him. For people who have none, to despise others who have money through dint of their own achievement is absurd, don't you think? As a result, to add insult to injury, my poor sister has been sold off to a minor government official. I shall not pretend I am overjoyed by this match. This is not the dream we shared when we were small children. Now I do not even have the money to provide a decent trousseau for her. I had hoped your cousin might help me again." Her gaze returned to me. "Or perhaps you could. What do you do, Mr Holmes?"

I considered my response. A consulting detective with no means of pursuing his trade was unlikely to inspire confidence, so I gave her a version of the truth where I confessed to be employed on a matter which fell under Lord Preston's supervision.

"Another civil servant," Lady Hester said scornfully. "My father would approve. At this rate, I shall have to marry you."

"I fancy that would be a waste."

A sparkle came to her eye. "Perhaps not. You do seem _different_. I've never known a stranger who was able to 'deduce' my little secret before. Tell me, why does George call you 'Dotty'? I read once that schoolboys give each other silly names, but isn't that a girl's name?"

"It's because he had a damned girl's education, didn't you, Holmes?" spoke up Lord Shadwell. Seated to Lady Hester's left, he had been imbibing rather too freely and was warm with the drink. "To soft to go to school, damned mother's boy."

There is an old truism that one should never argue with fools or drunkards, lest onlookers confused you with them. In such company, however, it was not a remark I could let pass without comment, whatever my brother's feelings.

"Truth be told, I hardly remember her," I explained to Lady Hester. "I was but a small child when she died. As for my education, I do not deny that I had no formal schooling. My father was an archivist at one of the Oxford colleges. There was always a succession of impoverished students passing through our doors, tutoring me in exchange for bed and board. Unconventional perhaps, but it was a broad education." [2]

"George," said she to her cousin. "You owe Mr Holmes an apology. That was unforgivably rude."

He muttered something uncharitable, rose to his feet, knocked over the chair and promptly fell to the floor. The footman and butler hurried over and together they assisted him from the room. The others around the table pretended not to notice.

"What a display," said Lady Hester. "Whatever must you think of us?"

"Neither of our families has presented themselves in the best light this evening."

"We at least have behaved decently," said she with an amused smile. "I am sorry about George."

"It was revealing. I thought he called me 'Dotty' because my studies were irregular."

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"Suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune is the common lot of mankind, Lady Hester. A few foolish words do not trouble me."

She gazed at me, as though I had made a radical suggestion, the like of which had never occurred to her before. In some way, it was troubling, and I feared I had made a bad impression to further sully our reputation. It was only when she smiled that I saw it was something else, like the implanting of seed that was ripe for germination.

I should have liked to have pursued that thought, but with dessert at an end, the ladies were obliged to retire. I was in no mood to bandy words with the others around the table and so took myself out into the garden. In the dark, the landscape was an uneven patchwork of shapes and dusky hues, and the thin light shining through the French windows did not illuminate much beyond the raised borders of privet. Somewhere beyond, a nightingale sang, and there rose up the distant sound of a piano from the drawing room, where the ladies were amusing themselves.

As evenings went, it had been an ordeal. I still did not understand the motivations of either party, save that which they cared to tell me. I took out a cigarette, tried to light it and dropped the match. I clenched my fist to stop the shaking and tried again. This time, I managed to strike it, only to drop the cigarette. I caught myself on the verge of giving up, and came to the startling realisation that illness and my own feeble limitations were becoming second nature to me.

Giving in to whatever was ailing me seemed tantamount to accepting that my own demise was at hand. I stared at my trembling hands, tried to force them to remain steady and failed. I dug the nails deep into my palms, and used the pain to refocus my effort. This time when I reached for the cigarette, I caught it up and did not lose my grip.

"A light, Mr Holmes?"

I turned to find Colonel Malpas had wandered from the dining room to join me on the terrace. I accepted his offer and tried not to shake noticeably when he applied the match to my cigarette.

"Quite an evening," said he, puffing reflectively. "I gather this is not your natural environment?"

I would have preferred the solitude, but a chance to converse with the man was too good an opportunity to waste. He had spent most the dinner studying me, and I wondered at his interest. That he had now sought me out suggested Malpas had something to say that I should hear.

"I can't stand these interminable engagements," he said. "One is exposed to the worst elements of society. This current indulgence in aimless banter has never appealed to me. If the government could legislate against it, mine would not be the voice of dissension. I am in favour of silence. It gives one time to think. Don't you agree?"

A logical thought followed from this statement. "Are you a member of my brother's club?"

"The Diogenes? No, too crowded for me. The idea that the unsocial man would wish to gather with other unsociable men seems incongruous. Why are you not a member, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I fear I would not qualify."

Malpas rounded on me, a most singular intensity in his dark blue eyes. "On the contrary, I would have said you were eminently suited. Your acquaintances are few and your habits solitary. You are as uncomfortable in this setting as you were in that public house the other night."

I started, and I saw from his expression that he was pleased with the effect he had had on me.

"My dear sir, you seem surprised. There is little we do not know in Whitehall, especially when it concerns a sibling of one of our most valued members. Knowledge is the currency and life-blood of our business. I know, for example, that your condition has baffled your doctors and continues to worsen. That is a pity. You show promise, as did your brother when he first came to us. Tell me, Mr Holmes, why did you refuse the position he offered you in the Home Office?"

"You appear to know much about me, Colonel. Perhaps you could enlighten me."

The man chuckled and threw his cigarette aside. "Either the thought of working with your brother does not appeal or you have some other objection. I hope it is not the latter. I have to question why a man such as yourself, who is hardly in a financial position to decline such an offer, would be content to remain a penniless free agent and yet accept a commission from the Home Secretary. Yes, Mr Holmes, I know about the accusations levelled at Inspector Lestrade. The question is, do you?"

His tone was one of exaggerated indifference, when all indications were that he was quite the opposite. I tried to make something of him, of his character and background. In my better days, I would have succeeded. As it was, he was a closed book to me, as if all traces of personality had been surgically removed. He presented a carefully cultivated veneer of inscrutability, designed to unnerve and intimidate. To his credit, it was working.

"I have not made up my mind, Colonel, until I examine the facts."

"I sincerely hope so, for personal bias has no place in an investigation of this nature," said Malpas, turning as the footman came out bearing a tray with drinks. He nodded to the man, took the glasses and offered one to me. "A brandy, Mr Holmes. You look like you need it."

He watched as I swallowed the meagre contents of the glass. A curiously bitter taste assaulted my mouth, quite unlike the sweet brandy to which I had become accustomed. Strangely, it did have an invigorating effect. My mind began to clear and the pains in my stomach subsided.

"Most unpleasant," said Malpas, putting down his own empty glass with a grimace. "Roselynn is as mean with his spirits as he is with his daughters. I fancy you do not approve of your brother's match?"

"Ah, then you were listening to our conversation at the dinner table. I thought so."

He waved this aside. "Most perceptive of you, Mr Holmes. The objections of a woman do not concern me. Yours do, however. I ask because it is important to know where a man's loyalties lie. Are you with us, Mr Holmes, or against us?"

"I should have thought, based on previous experience, that the answer to that was obvious."

"A man may change his allegiance as easily as he does his shirt if it suits him. We would be more convinced if you were to join us. Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?"

"Nothing at all. I must follow my own inclination."

He bowed his head. "As I thought. Now, you must excuse me. I have a busy schedule tomorrow."

As he left, Mycroft appeared in the doorway. His expression on seeing Malpas in my presence was as rigid and drained of colour as if it had been carved from ivory. The two acknowledged each other, and seeing the man gone, Mycroft relaxed a little.

"What did he want with you?" he demanded.

I ignored his question. "Mycroft, who the devil is he?"

There was a pause while he considered how to reply. "An advisor," said he at last.

"To the Home Secretary?"

"He addresses the needs of a great many people."

"Including yourself, I take it?"

Mycroft stiffened. The lines tightened around his eyes, alerting me that I was to be treated to my brother's particular version of the truth. "I have had cause to consult him."

"Since when have you needed an advisor?"

"Keep your voice down," he said, taking my arm and ushering me onto the lawn, away from the house. "What did Malpas say to you?"

"That he knows I have been ill, that I met with Inspector Lestrade – exactly what else have you been telling him about me?"

"Nothing he did not already know."

"Another omniscient. What a blow to your pride that must have been, to discover your unique position was anything but!"

"Every department has its checks and balances. We must all answer to a higher power. Even me."

"Perhaps Endymion could help you out there. He believes he has the ear of the Almighty."

Mycroft adopted the superior expression he usually wore when addressing my shortcomings as a sibling. This, for us, was familiar territory, and more comfortable ground to tread than contemplating the thought that I had encountered the one person who had the power and influence to scare even my brother.

For deny it as I may, I could not mistake that look on his face when he saw us together. Nor now, weakened in my own powers, could I fail to appreciate the meaning of the glances he repeatedly made over his shoulder back to the house to ensure that we were not overheard.

"Blasphemy is unnecessary, Sherlock," said he. "Malpas has his uses. He advises on strategy, how to handle certain delicate situations, that sort of thing."

"Am I right in assuming that he suggested this alliance?"

Mycroft was clearly unhappy at having the revelation forced from him. "If you must know, then, yes, he did. It has its advantages both for Lady Blanche and for myself. That is why he was here tonight."

"To ensure you both went through with it, no doubt."

"On the contrary, to satisfy himself that both parties were amenable to the situation. You have seen us. Are you satisfied?"

I struggled to stifle a yawn. For the first time in many days, I felt as though the heavy mantle of insomnia was beginning to lift.

"Do I need to be?" I replied.

"No, but your blessing would be appreciated all the same."

"Then you have it."

He laid his hand on my shoulder. "That means a great deal to me, brother. Well, I am leaving now. Will you share my cab?"

I accepted the offer, and we took our leave of the Earl and his few remaining guests. A chaste smile was all the happy couple could muster before we hurried out into the night, taking our unfortunate cousins with us, and found several hansoms waiting. With Endymion and Evadne despatched, our own cab then took us the short distance to Mycroft's lodgings in Mayfair before continuing on to my rooms in Bloomsbury.

I do not recall much of the journey, for I had the greatest difficulty in staying awake. I have heard of people who used matchsticks to keep their eyes open, but I fear even that would not have kept sleep at bay. My head bounced against the side wall of the cab from time to time, startling me back to wakefulness whenever we hit a lump in the road, without which I fear I should have fallen into the deepest of sleeps. Cabmen are not known for their courtesy towards the inebriated, which he certainly would have thought I was, and I fancy my ride back to Montague Street would have ended with my being thrown into the gutter.

As it was, I staggered up the steps to my rooms, more asleep than awake, struggled with the keys to my door, and finally fell exhausted onto the bed, only to lapse into unconsciousness as soon as my eyelids closed.

* * *

_Goodnight, Mr 'Dotty', er, Sherlock Holmes. He certainly needs his rest after an evening like that!_

_So, is Lady Hester a friend or foe? Any thoughts on Colonel Malpas?_

_And just what is wrong with the poor fellow?_

_Continued in Chapter Six!_

* * *

[1] As a débutante. It was customary to present girls of good birth of suitable age, usually 18 years, at a special court ceremony in the hopes of attracting a suitable husband of similar or equal social standing. Any girl still unmarried after her second or third season was considered a failure. A woman without a husband at 30 would be thought a hopeless spinster.

[2] I follow the general belief that Sherlock Holmes was tutored rather than attended a public school. There are various reasons why, partly because of his lack of enthusiasm for team sports, something which would have been drummed out of him at school.


	7. Chapter 6

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Six: Falling At The First Hurdle**

I awoke at quarter past three the next day. I had slept, if not like the dead, then a very close approximation to it. But sleep, as they say, is a great healer. I felt infinitely improved. Something like the clarity of old had returned, displacing the fog of confusion that bedevilled me for many months.

Having lost the better part of the day, however, I had to bustle about, so that an hour later my cab was pulling up outside Scotland Yard. The building loomed above me, grumbling dark clouds framing the once bright stone and red brick walls, now clad with the grime from industry and a million sooty hearths. At the apex, the hands of the clock stood at twenty past four. I trusted I was not too late. To lose another day of the investigation when I had precious few would be unconscionable.

The duty sergeant, a well-made, balding man in his forties, raised a lazy eye from his copy of '_The London Illustrated News_' as I entered. He seemed more than a little bored when I told him my name.

"Oh, it's you, Lestrade's pet private 'consulting detective', whatever that is," he grunted. "Well, he's out. Unless you've come to report a crime, I suggest you make yourself scarce."

"On the contrary, Sergeant, I came to see Chief Inspector Matthews."

He turned his attention back to his paper and idly turned the page. "Have you now? Question is, does he want to see you?"

"Perhaps if you asked him," I suggested. "It is a matter of some importance."

"When I'm good and ready," came his answer.

"And when might that be?"

He caught the archness in my voice, and his manner turned ugly.

"Now, listen here, you," he began, jabbing a finger in my direction. "Enough of your cheek. I've a good mind to let you cool your heels in the cells for a few hours to teach you some manners."

"On what charge?"

"How about loitering? Or wasting police time? Or just for being an annoying little–"

"What's going on down here, Sergeant?"

The familiar voice made me turn to find that Gregson had appeared. He regarded me, hands thrust into his pockets, eyebrows raised, in the manner of a schoolmaster confronted with a wayward pupil. It had been a little over five months since we had last seen each other, and it was evident that his attempted murder by the escaped prisoner, Vamberry, had neither dimmed his spirit or his contempt for me.

"This man giving you trouble?"

"Nothing I can't handle, Mr Gregson."

He turned his attention to me. "What is you want, Mr Holmes? If it's Lestrade you're after, he's out ridding London of crime single-handedly. I can't think why he would need your help."

"I came to see Chief Inspector Matthews."

"Why?" he shot back.

"A private matter."

"Oh, tell me."

"I am not at liberty to do so. It is, however, imperative that I see him."

He exchanged a glance with the other man. "Very well then," he said grudgingly. "You'd better come with me."

Much to the duty sergeant's disgust, I followed Gregson into the inner sanctum of Scotland Yard. There was a stiffness in the way he moved that spoke of the lingering effects of his recent injury. The first reports after the shooting had suggested he had not been expected to live. Lestrade had told me he owed his survival to his wife, who had sought a second opinion when the attending doctor was convinced his demise was imminent. In so doing, she had saved her husband's life. Gregson had lived to fight another day.

I was aware that I owed him a debt of gratitude. From his sickbed, he had alerted Lestrade to my situation as a hopeless detainee in Postern Prison. I also owed him ten pounds. We had made our wager that I would never escape the prison, and he had been correct. I imagined that he would let me forget either in a hurry.

"It is good to see you back, Gregson," I ventured.

"That's _Sergeant_ Gregson to you, Mr Holmes," he corrected me. "In case you haven't heard."

I feigned ignorance. Bradley had told me of his demotion, although I suspected it would not long before he re-attained his previous rank. All the same, Gregson was a man who held a grudge. To be reduced to the same level as the pugnacious sergeant on the front desk was not conducive to his harbouring generous feelings towards me. That he held me partly responsible was not entirely unwarranted; I had been a willing party in a venture that ultimately had brought credit to neither of us. We were still suffering the after-effects, both to mind and body alike. [1]

"Are you going to tell me why you want to see Matthews?" he demanded, abruptly stopping before a door in a long dark-panelled corridor.

"I can't tell you."

That prompted the rebuke I had been expecting.

"You owe me, Mr Holmes, and don't you forget it!" said he, jabbing a finger in my general direction. "What did happen in that prison? Lestrade won't tell me."

"Neither can I."

His lip curled in dislike. "I believed you when no one else would. And what do I get in return?"

"You were not entirely altruistic. You saw an opportunity to advance yourself at my expense."

"And why not? Why should Lestrade get all the glory? You wanted a way in to Postern and I supplied it. For that, I get stripped of my rank and demoted. I think you owe me something for that. Which reminds me." He held out his hand. "We had a wager. You didn't escape, did you?"

"No."

"Then you owe me ten pounds."

I looked at the outstretched hand and saw the smug expression on his face. "I don't have it."

"That's all right. I can wait till tomorrow."

"You misunderstand. I don't have it_ at all_."

The grin broadened.

"Ah, well, that's different. I can't abide a man who welches on a bet, but I'm sure we can come to an understanding. Tell you what, Mr Holmes, you can pay in kind. There may come a time when I need a little 'unofficial' help."

He had the temerity to pat me on the cheek.

"We can't let Lestrade take all the credit, can we?"

Rather too pleased with himself, he knocked at the door where we had stopped. A voice sounded from inside. At the call, Gregson pushed it open for me, still smiling, like a cat with a canary at its mercy.

It is a rule of mine that I dislike anyone having a hold over me, lest of all a Scotland Yard inspector. The simplest option would have been to have paid him and left it at that. Except I had told him the truth when I had said I did not have the money. Being unable to practice my profession left me unable to generate income. I was living off my brother's largesse, much to my chagrin, and going to him cap in hand for a little extra to settle my debts was as unpalatable as being in debt to Gregson. It was another in a long line of annoyances that eventually would have to be addressed.

As it was, the question of Lestrade was foremost in my mind. Chief Inspector James Matthews, a sinewy man in his fifties, was of middle height, with a rapidly receding hairline and dark circles beneath his eyes. The stiffness in his left leg as he stood to welcome me spoke of an old injury obtained in the course of his duties, whilst the wrinkles etched around his eyes told of a man of good humour. Not that he had much to laugh about at the moment – the stain on his lapel and the tight, untidy knot of his tie told of a disagreement with his spouse.

All this I observed, and for the first time in a long time, it meant something. It had come naturally and unbidden, requiring none of the effort of late that a simple deduction had required. I did not allow myself to trust that I was witnessing the beginning of a recovery; hope, with its bedfellow, despair, can only be borne when supported by solid evidence. It was a beginning, however, and an assurance that I was not as bereft of my abilities as I had feared.

Whatever his personal problems, he was affable in his manner, though this was tempered by more than a little wariness when I told him my name.

"Ah, yes, Mr Holmes. Sir Rupert Bradley told me to expect you."

He went to the door, opened it again, looked out and, satisfied we were not being overheard, relaxed a little.

"To tell you the truth, I'm not happy about the Commissioner involving someone else in this business. I'd prefer to handle it." He sucked his teeth. "But, seeing how it's you and you're a friend of Mr Lestrade, I dare say he'll get a fair hearing. Fairer than if the Commissioner was looking into it, anyhow."

"You don't like him?"

Matthews shrugged. "I don't have to like him. He pays my wages, that's all. I'm not marrying him."

I was warming to the world-weary chief inspector.

"Do you believe there's any truth in the accusation?"

Matthews prevaricated for as long as he could before shaking his head.

"No. From what I know of him, Lestrade is as straight as the day is long. No officer I'd rather have by my side in a crisis. What he lacks in brains, he makes up for in cunning. Take you, for example. Most of the men around here wouldn't stoop so low as to have anything dealings with a private inquiry agent. Oh, no offence, Mr Holmes," he added quickly. "I understand you're rather more than that."

"I am not yet reduced to following wayward spouses or light-fingered servants," I said graciously.

"Well, that Lestrade did what he did and kept quiet about it is what I call that initiative," Matthews continued. "Not using someone else's brains when you've none of your own is like cutting your nose to spite your face. Results are what matter to the public, Mr Holmes. Methods matter too, of course, which is why I worry about him. Lestrade can be a fool at times. When he kept bringing me these recent cases, I had hoped he was using you again. So I made some enquiries of my own and heard you've been indisposed."

"That is true. I haven't spoken to Lestrade in some months."

"Except for the other night."

I gave him a searching look. Our meeting seemed to be the worst kept secret in Whitehall.

"I've got a man keeping him under observation," said Matthews, by way explanation. "He said you left early."

I thought just for a moment that I caught a movement to the left out of the side of my eye. I checked and saw nothing untoward, save a faded picture of the monarch from her younger years hanging on the wall above a bookcase with a discernable slope so that books leaned against each other like drunken men homeward bound.

"I had another engagement," I said, drawing myself back to our conversation.

There was no need for the chief inspector to know the humiliating details of that night, if he had not already been told.

"I would ask, however, what your man has observed of Lestrade's habits."

At this, Matthews immediately became nervous. He took to fidgeting with his papers, shuffling them and straightening them beyond the realms of necessity. At last, with nothing left to occupy his hands or his mind, he let out a sigh and sank back in his chair, with the look of a disillusioned man.

"He gambles."

"A failing, but not a crime."

Matthews grunted. "Ah, but Lestrade is one of those rarer creatures, the successful gambler. So far, he's had a win every time."

Again, I caught a flutter of activity and again I turned my head to look. All seemed normal, except as I turned away, I thought I saw the picture of the Queen wink at me. I stared at it, feeling the hairs prickling on the back of my neck and sweat starting to bead on my face. The more I stared, the more I fancied I saw.

"Is everything all right, Mr Holmes?"

The concern was evident in his voice. I forced myself back to Matthews.

"Every time, you say?"

He nodded. "And we're not talking the odd half-crown here and there. The horses we know of were all long shots. One of them had long odds of 100/1." [2]

The implication of that was obvious. David may have had success in all his undertakings, but I doubted the Lord was with Lestrade when he laid his bets. Something rather more prosaic was at work here, something all too familiar in the field of crime.

"You believe the races to be fixed."

From what I had read, it is easier than most people imagine to pre-determine the outcome of a horse race. A pulling jockey in league with a trainer or owner could prevent the favourite from winning. The use of poisons to prevent a horse from performing at its best or to kill it had been known before now.

But guaranteeing the victor in such a contest is, however, more difficult. It had been managed in 1844 when a four-year-old horse, Maccabeus, won the Derby, a race only for three-year-olds, under the guise of a colt called Running Rein. The case had been of interest to me, because of the methods used by Lord George Bentinck, who had exposed the scandal. A keen gambler himself, with a string of horses and a stable, he had learned of the practice of dyeing a horse's coat, so that one might masquerade as another. Having trawled the chemists' shops without success, he found a barber who was able to both confirm the supply of dye and the person who had bought it.

The rule requiring the Stewards of the Jockey Club to examine the teeth of horses after a race to determine their age had gone some way to eradicating the practice of substituting 'ringers' like Maccabeus, as the racing world called them. Either horses were still slipping through the net or another method had been devised to ensure that a certain result was achieved. The ingenuity of the criminal mind should never be underestimated, however objectionable the methods.

Naturally, my interest was piqued, enough to distract my attention from the fidgeting portrait on Matthew's wall. I kept my attention on the chief inspector and did my best to ignore Her Majesty's beckoning hand.

"Well, I certainly don't believe in luck, Mr Holmes," Matthews said in reply. "What I do think is that Lestrade is out of his depth. Probably he doesn't realise it."

"And if he does?"

The chief inspector sat back in his chair and regarded me with an air of defeat. "Then I've been wrong about him all along. I don't want to think it, but it has to be faced. We can't afford another scandal, not after what happened last time. The worst of it is that I'm implicated in this."

"Indeed?"

He pulled an unhappy face. "I'm meant to know what my detectives are up to. And yet, here's Lestrade, living beyond his means, on an inspector's wage and a £10 plain-clothes annual allowance. Now his wife has had the twins, I hear there's talk of him moving to a bigger house. And then there's the ferret business. The Commissioner didn't take too kindly to that."

With a sigh drawn from the depths of his being, he leant his elbows on the table and regarded me earnestly. "If I'm honest, I was hoping his new-found wealth was something we could explain away as an oversight. Since November of 1877, we instituted a new policy forbidding detectives from accepting gratuities from the public. All monies have to go into a central fund, you see, to be dispensed by the commissioner. Well, mistakes happen, money goes astray. If it had been that, it wouldn't have been so bad. But another horse-racing scandal, hot on the heels of the last? If we aren't closed down by Christmas, it'll be a miracle!"

"You should have your answer long before then. Commissioner Bradley gave me two weeks, whatever the findings of my investigation."

Matthews shook his head. "_'Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee'_," he misquoted miserably.

"Aside from the issue of money, the Commissioner suggested there was a question over Lestrade's recent successes."

"I agreed to those too," said Matthews. "The wife isn't speaking to me as it is. Lord knows what she'll say when she learns I've lost my job. My liberty too, if this thing goes to trial."

"I doubt it will ever see a courtroom," I assured him. "If, as commonly believed, Lestrade has not come by these cases by dint of his own merit, then he must have an informer."

"He has many. 'People who owe him a favour', he calls them. Several we already know about: Fat Harry, Bald Charlie, Skinny Mary, and so on. All old felons, the lot of them. They'd nose on their fellow criminals for a tuppenny glass of gin, but they're not in the same league as whoever he's currently dealing with. This is different. If it isn't coincidence, if he is using Lestrade to divert our attention from more serious cases, then we're dealing with a very cunning villain."

"Your man wasn't able to identify him?"

"Or her," said Matthews pointedly. "It's been my experience that the fairer sex is worse than the men. But, in answer to your question, no, he wasn't."

"Then my investigation must start there."

I made the mistake of letting my concentration wander for a fraction of a second. It was enough for my eye to fall upon the bookcase and the portrait above. To my horror, the frame was empty and the figure within was now standing in all her bejewelled splendour before the door, smiling devilishly at me. As I watched, her eyes became boiling balls of fire and the lips parted to reveal flame within.

I was on my feet before I knew what I was doing. I blinked and the apparition vanished. A moment later, she was back in her portrait, as inscrutable as ever. My heart was pounding in my ears, accompanied by a strong sense of impending nausea.

"Mr Holmes?" Matthews inquired. "Whatever is the matter?"

I forced my fears away, and hoped the sheen of perspiration that had risen to my skin was not overly obvious.

"I must go," I said. "Thank you, Chief Inspector, you've been most helpful."

He offered his hand. "Well, godspeed you, Mr Holmes. And I do mean that most sincerely. For all our sakes."

As I left, the Queen gave me one final wink, whether of confidence or impish mockery I could not tell. Standing outside the chief inspector's door, several detectives passed me. I felt their eyes on me, felt their scorn, felt their blatant hostility. A sensation of blind terror swept through me, as though I was the pawn in a game, a quarry in a hunt, and my pursuers were closing in on me from all sides. I scurried from the building, found a cab and put my hands over my ears to shut out the ceaseless growl of London. Despite my best efforts, I could still hear the voices from every quarter, calling my name, baying for my blood, telling me I would never escape.

By the time I arrived back at Montague Street, I had convinced myself that a blood-thirsty mob was at my heels. I ran inside, slammed my door on the world and pressed my fevered brow to the cool grain of the rough wood. The world gradually grew quiet, and soul became calm. Whatever it was had passed, leaving a gnawing at the pit of my stomach for something other than food.

I left the sanctuary of the door in better spirits, only to find that I was not alone.

"Well, good evening, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade, rising from the chair by the fire to greet me.

* * *

_**Just when it was going so well – and then the Queen winks at him! Time for a serious talk with Lestrade – because we don't really believe he's up to no good, do we? As for Mr Holmes, last chance to speculate on what's ailing him, because there's a BIG clue coming up!  
**_

_**Continued in Chapter Seven!**_

* * *

[1] In the UK, detectives are not superior in rank to those of uniformed officers; the 'detective' prefix means that the officer has a proven investigative ability. The main difference is pay – 1869, £150 per annum was the wage for a detective sergeant at Scotland Yard, compared with £88-93 p.a. for a divisional sergeant in 1877. Detective Inspectors at Scotland Yard in 1877 were earning £225 p.a., so demotion has not only wounded Gregson's pride, but his pocket too.

[2] Long shots or long odds means a horse, football team or some other event which is not excepted to be successful. So with long odds of 100/1, for every £1 you bet, you could get £100 back – if the horse comes in, that is. But they are called long odds or long shot for a reason, because they are not expected to win!


	8. Chapter 7

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Seven: Sending in the Cavalry**

It took me a moment to register that Lestrade was no fevered apparition, but a creature of flesh and blood. I fear my relief was evident, for I perceived a subtle change in his expression, from uncertainty to concern.

"This is a surprise, Inspector," I said, pulling myself together.

"Your landlady let me in," said he. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all. Would you care for a brandy?"

He agreed, as I hoped he would. I was more in need of it than he was, but one never likes to be seen drinking alone. I found two glasses, drew out the bottle and proceeded to splash the contents liberally over the surface of the table.

"Here, let me," said Lestrade, hurriedly taking the bottle from my trembling hands.

I took the glass he offered, and downed the contents, all the while aware of my companion's close scrutiny. I savoured the taste, sweeter than the bitter concoction I had been offered the night before, and felt a little sanity return to my soul. With my indiscretions becoming ever more public, it did not take a great intellect to anticipate the inspector's next question.

"You're not well, are you?"

"So everyone keeps telling me. What are you doing here, Lestrade?"

He took his drink and returned to the chair. Making himself comfortable, he took his time over the brandy before fixing me with a censorious stare. Whatever the purpose of his visit, sympathy was not to be part of it.

"Truth be told, Mr Holmes, I was concerned about you after our meeting the other night. Now, tell me it's none of my business–"

"Correct, Inspector. It is none of your business."

He nodded. "Quite so. I'll say my piece nonetheless. I'll not deny we've had our differences, but you've been useful in the past and you're not a man to ignore well-meant advice lightly."

I was aware he was appraising my condition. The trembling had subsided to manageable levels, though the blood still pounded in my ears and I was feeling light-headed. Maintaining my self-control was proving harder by the minute.

"Why don't you sit down before you fall down?" he suggested.

"That's your advice?"

"No, it's a recommendation. Gracious, Mr Holmes, my wife has just had twins and she doesn't look half as bad as you do."

"How is the family?" I asked, taking the seat opposite.

"Very well," said he, his manner brightening a little. "The girls are blooming, and keeping the wife up half the night. We've a full house at the moment too."

"Your mother-in-law is staying."

He glanced at me. "Well, yes, however did you–"

"What could be more natural than that the mother should wish to see her daughter and new grandchildren at such a time? Added to the fact that you are here, concerning yourself with trivial matters when you would rather be at home, tells me you have been driven out."

"There's some truth in what you say," he conceded, finishing the last of his brandy. "Except I wasn't 'driven out'. I left them to it. Women need time to natter with the men out of the way. When you get married, you'll learn. If you make it that far, that is," he added for good measure. "And _this_ is not a trivial matter."

He threw something across the room to me. I caught it and found that I held the glass bottle I had left on the mantle, the ruby red dregs within betraying the contents as laudanum.

"You fool," he hissed.

"It is empty."

"That explains a lot."

"It explains nothing. You have rifled through my possessions and, having found what you believe to be evidence, arrived at an erroneous conclusion."

"You deny taking it?"

"No. It was prescribed. I was having… problems."

"Well, you certainly are now."

"Not the same problems."

"Really?"

Lestrade pushed himself up and positioned himself before the fire, hands behind his back. A memory rose of my father adopting the same attitude when he felt a lecture about my failings as a son was overdue. It did not put me in a receptive frame of mind.

"I knew there was something wrong the other night. The Sherlock Holmes I knew would never have mistaken an organ-grinder for a cabman. You ran from that public house like a whipped pup. I thought that was mighty queer. And then, just now, when you first saw me, I noticed your expression. You didn't know if I was real or not, did you?"

I said nothing, since he had already made up his own mind. Nor could I deny what he had himself witnessed.

"My old Ma," he began, after clearing his throat in scholarly manner, "used to have a touch of rheumatism in her neck. A local quack said she should try laudanum to ease the pain. Six drops three times a day he prescribed, just enough to take the edge off the ache when it troubled her. Thing was, she always seemed to have it, and when she didn't, she was inventing reasons for it. So, when the wind was blowing from the north, she'd have her 'medicine'. When rain was due, she'd be measuring out the drops. Every now and then, when she had a headache or the pain was particularly bad, she'd have an extra drop or two, just to get her through. By the time my father got wind of what was happening, she was having two spoonfuls a day. When he caught her swigging it out of the bottle, he put his foot down and took it away from her."

"Lestrade," I began wearily.

"Let me finish, Mr Holmes. As I say, he took it away from her. She was wailing and crying, but he wouldn't be swayed. It was a terrible thing to see. I was only a nipper at the time, but I can remember it like it was only yesterday. Sweating like a cart-horse she was when she couldn't get it, and snivelling, like she had a cold. After half a day without it, she was doubled up with pains in her stomach and willing herself to vomit, though she'd nothing to eat, so couldn't bring anything up. When she started seeing things and telling Father there were demons in the outhouse, he locked her in the bedroom."

He fixed me with a penetrating stare.

"She fell from the upstairs window, trying to climb out to get some of that accursed medicine of hers. Broke her arm and her collarbone. How she didn't break her neck, the Lord only knows. Mind you, falling into the nightman's cart helped, the soil made for a soft landing, you see."

He paused, as though he was waiting for me to say something. I knew what he was driving at, but he was so far wrong that the implication was insulting.

"Is there any point to this story?" I asked.

"The point, Mr Holmes, is that laudanum is not something I'd allow under my roof under any circumstances. The doctor wanted to give it to the wife after she'd had the twins the other day. I refused. Well may he call me hard-hearted, but I've seen what it can do. I'll not have her exchange one problem for another. I saw what it did to my mother." His beady eyes settled on me. "Now I'm seeing it all over again."

I rose from my chair and poured myself another drink. The tremors in my arms were gone and the hand that poured the brandy was firm. I was aware Lestrade was watching me, and, from his expression, was unimpressed by this show of restraint.

"When did you run out of laudanum?" he demanded.

"I didn't run out. I poured it away. Over a month ago."

His brow creased. "And you've still got the collywobbles? I'm no doctor, Mr Holmes–"

"No, you aren't."

"But that doesn't sound right to me. Either you're lying about not taking this accursed stuff or..." He let the thought hang. "Or it's done you a permanent mischief. The mind is a funny thing, easily damaged. How much were you taking?"

The question was presumptuous and I was inclined not to answer. Lestrade had, however, touched a nerve and a thought that had occurred to me.

"Thirty-five drops."

"How much were you originally prescribed?"

"Twenty."

Lestrade grunted. "Just like my old Ma. She had got so used to taking it, that in order to make her give it up, my father had to reduce her dose day by day. The doctor said what he'd done in taking it away from her completely could have made her drop dead from the shock of not having it."

"Well, I am not your mother, and, despite the learned opinion of the medical profession, I have not expired from lack of it."

"That's as maybe, Mr Holmes, but you've not emerged unscathed, have you? It's a shame too. You had potential. And I'm sorry to say that the madhouses in this country are not well run. My grandfather told me about the time he visited the lunatics at Bedlam on a day out when he was a child. I'll never forget that haunted look in his eye when he described how the inmates were left naked and starving, chained up against the walls with only straw and one blanket between the lot of them to keep the cold at bay. Like a dog-kennel he said it was."

I put down my empty glass with a thump hard enough to stop his soliloquy in its tracks. I was aware of my short-comings. I was aware too that all was not well and that my condition was rapidly deteriorating. What remained of my reasoning told me that the logical progression of the weakening of my mind would manifest itself ever more until it could not be hidden. At the point I became a public embarrassment to my brother, I would have to be removed from polite society. I hoped Mycroft would have the good grace to select an asylum that applied kinder methods of treatment than straw and chains.

What I did not need to hear, however, was an amateur assessment of my condition based on the observation of a single case. The only thing that I shared in common with Lestrade's mother was Lestrade himself. Everything else was purely circumstantial.

"Is that all, Inspector?" I said. "Because if you've come here to gloat–"

He bridled at that. "I came because I was concerned."

"Then I trust you are satisfied by what you find. Good evening, Lestrade. You can find your own way out."

With impeccable timing, my landlady, Mrs Bulstrode, chose that moment to knock on my door and enter with a bowl of steaming soup. A voluble, good-natured woman, she had the manner of an old mother hen and took the line that nothing was too much trouble for her lodgers. A husband, remembered with affection with the ring that she continued to wear despite its tightness on her plump fingers, had passed away many years ago, and a mourning locket worn around her neck, which had once turned to reveal a twisted blonde braid, spoke of the loss of a child at a young age. The void had been filled to some extent by those who came to stay at her plain but comfortable boarding house, and there were few complaints from those souls who sought refuge at this quiet end of Montague Street if their solitary evenings were interrupted by well-meant cups of tea or plentiful plates of food.

"Oh, are you still here, Inspector?" said she, placing the tray down on the table. "Are you staying for supper?"

"He's just leaving," I said before he could reply.

"Well, it's nice you've had a visitor, Mr Holmes," she went on, turning her attention back to Lestrade with a smile. "He hasn't been at all well, sir. Hardly set foot outside the door for weeks. The doctors kept coming, but none of them could ever figure out what was wrong with him. Still, he's on the mend now, and that's all to the good. What he needs is building up."

"Yes, thank you, Mrs Bulstrode," I said, ushering her back to the door. Lestrade was taking rather too much interest in what she had to say, and I had no desire to detain either of them.

"Just you make sure you have something to eat, Mr Holmes," she persisted. "I just finished making Mr Lester his evening meal and I had some left over and I knew you wouldn't have eaten as usual, so I took the liberty of bringing up some curried lentil soup. I've got some more downstairs if you want it. Just you let me know."

I assured her I would, finally closing the door. I turned back to find Lestrade delicately sniffing at the offering and poking the wedge of bread with his finger.

"She's a decent cook," said he. "Curried lentil, did she say? That's a queer recipe."

"Mr Lester is a vegetarian. Mrs Bulstrode prepares his meals separately. As she invariably makes too much, she often brings some to me."

"So he's one of those faddists. Can't say I hold with it myself. You can't go wrong with a nice bowl of steaming hot oxtail. Mind you, it's been a long day and I doubt there'll be much on offer when I get home…"

He looked at me expectantly. I saw I was not to be rid of him so easily. Nor would doing so be helpful to my investigation, whatever my own feelings about his impertinence. His visit would have been duly noted by the man Matthews had set to follow him, and the news would soon be known throughout Whitehall, if past experience was anything by which to judge. Mycroft would have a fit when he learned I was entertaining the man in my home, the rent of which he paid, as he was fond of reminding me, and I imagined I would be feeling the rough edge of his tongue whatever the duration of Lestrade's stay. Whilst I had him at my disposal and in a loquacious frame of mind, it would have been foolish to waste the opportunity presented to me.

"Yes, help yourself," I relented.

He accepted my offer heartily and began to tear the bread apart.

"Not bad," said he, dipping it into the bowl of red-brown soup. "Rather too spicy for my liking, but it's got a good flavour, I'll say that. It's not what my mother-in-law would recommend for a convalescent."

"I take what I can get," I said, turning my attention to my correspondence. There were too many bills and precious little of anything else that offered anything by way of diversion. "Food costs money, and I can ill afford the expense."

"You had money for the doctors."

"No. My brother sent them. He also had _concerns_."

"What was wrong with you?"

Quite what I had to do to make it clear that his interest in my health was an unwarranted intrusion was eluding me. Having exhausted my other options, I was fast approaching the moment where I would have to take him by the collar and march him to the door. Since that would benefit neither of us, I had to bite my tongue. As it was, he misread my expression and forestalled me.

"No, you don't need to say, I can guess," said he, putting down his spoon and sinking back into the chair. "It was that business at the prison, wasn't it?"

"If you say so, Inspector."

"Oh, I know so, Mr Holmes. A man doesn't get hanged every day and walk away from it without it affecting him."

Unbidden, a chill started in the pit of my stomach.

"I am no stranger to death."

"I'm not talking about near drownings and sword fights. I'm talking about standing there, waiting for it to happen. I can't imagine what that feels like. Thinking you've been reprieved only to have the floor fall out beneath you and–"

"That's enough!"

I could not help myself. It was an unforgivable slip that told Lestrade more than he needed to know. He held my gaze for a long time and nodded slowly in understanding.

"I thought it was something like that. I expect they put you on the laudanum to help you sleep. I can't blame you. An experience like that would give me a few sleepless nights."

"More than a few."

He nodded. "I hold myself to blame. I've been meaning to come round to see how you were getting on. Things have been busy."

"So I hear. You've been doing well for yourself."

"I've been lucky. I've had a few good cases."

I stopped myself from saying it would require a good deal more than luck to produce the results that were causing concern at Scotland Yard.

"Either way," he continued, "what's done is done. It could have been worse."

"Not by much."

"Some wouldn't have done so well."

From his change in manner, I sensed he was about launch into another discourse drawn from the annals of his lengthy personal experience. I was not disappointed.

"You know, Mr Holmes, something similar happened to me once. It was the first time I was injured in the course of my duties. I was still a constable in uniform at the time, and cocky with it. I was trying to arrest an old drunk when out of nowhere he ups and stabs me, right here in the stomach. It wasn't too bad, more of a glancing blow really, but it shook me. I was all for giving it up and trying my hand at something other than policing. Do you know what changed my mind?"

Several possibilities came to mind, but as he was inclined to speak, I did not interrupt him.

"My son," he went on. "My eldest boy as he is now. I didn't want him to grow up thinking his father was a coward." His eyes softened a little. "I suppose that's why I keep doing it. When it's cold and the villains are swearing at me and the cells are full of drunks yelling blue murder, I think of my family and it's what keeps me going."

If I had ever harboured doubts about Lestrade's honesty, they vanished in that moment. I thought of the charge hanging over his head and the accusations I had heard levelled at him. If anyone had assessed the situation correctly, it was Matthews with his assertion that Lestrade had wandered into deep waters unawares. Whether he could find his way back to shore was another matter.

The simplest thing in the world would have been to confront him there and then, and hear his side of the tale. With hindsight, that is what I should have done.

Instead, I thought of the terms I had laid out to Bradley, that Lestrade must never know he had been the subject of such rumours should they prove unfounded. Lestrade had broad shoulders, but he had pride in what he did and to have that questioned, especially by me, would colour our professional relationship for now and hereafter. I would conduct my investigation to the best of whatever abilities were remaining to me, present my findings and let the facts speak for themselves. To do so would require subterfuge on my part, a role for which I believed I was still equal.

"What you need to find, Mr Holmes," he continued, "is a reason to carry on, if this is what you want to do."

"My particular skills were my reason," I said, allowing the strain of the past months to creep into my voice. "I have lost that part of myself."

It is a failing I noticed in Lestrade that he was wont to cast himself in the role as the patron of lost causes. If I could appeal to his sense of largesse, as a diminished figure in need of his benevolence, I could achieve more than by a simple request for information. I sought and found deep within me something of the pathetic soul to which I knew Lestrade would respond, and played the part to perfection. And since the truth possesses a ring of confidence that invention lacks, I confided that which I had sought to conceal.

"You were correct, Lestrade," I forced myself to admit. "I did err the other night, badly. I saw all you saw and it meant nothing to me. Every time I close my eyes, I recall that day at the prison. Since then, nothing has been the same. At this rate..." I paused for effect. "I shall be destitute in a matter of weeks."

"Oh, I shouldn't think it'll come to that, Mr Holmes," said the inspector. "There's work all right, not the soft sort you're used to and there's some discomfort to it, so I've heard, but it pays, if don't mind swallowing your pride and letting another man have mastery over you."

This was not the response I had been expecting. I fancied I had misunderstood his meaning, for I had never imagined him to be as broad-minded as Mycroft in that respect.

"I still have some shred of dignity," I said.

"There's nothing wrong with sweeping the streets," Lestrade shot back, and I almost caught myself smiling at the wrong interpretation I had put on his words. "Once your hands toughen up, the blisters won't be a problem. I know it doesn't come naturally to a fellow of your birth, but plenty make a decent living working for other people."

"I do not object to the work. I fear, however, the wage would not be equal to my requirements. I have debts."

Lestrade sighed and reached into his pocket. "How much this time?"

I named a figure and he withdrew his hand.

"To say nothing of the ten pounds I owe Gregson." Naturally he wanted to know more. "We had a wager. I lost."

"And you had the cheek to come over all holier-than-thou with me," said he with a snort of laughter. "_'A man who gambles does so with his family's happiness'_. That's what you said."

"I stand by those words. I do not have your skill at selecting winners."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "Who told you that?"

"Your brother-in-law, George, the other evening indicated as much."

He relaxed a little, enough to yawn in a manner that seemed to take him by surprise. "George says too much. However, it's true. I've had a bit of luck on the horses of late."

I decided to tell him of my visit to Scotland Yard, as he would undoubtedly hear of it from others, substituting a lie calculated to play on his sense of self-interest. I told him I had gone to see Matthews in the hope he could find me employment. I made much of Gregson's offer to waive the debt in return for my help. I hoped Lestrade would find the idea of his rival getting the better of him of enough concern to take me into his confidence.

What I found instead was that Lestrade had fallen asleep during my explanation. His head lolled to one side, his mouth had dropped open and he was gently snoring. I roughly shook him and he came back to wakefulness with a snort.

"Forgive me, Mr Holmes, I must have been more tired than I thought. What were you saying?"

"Gregson," I repeated. "He wants me to work for him."

"Does he now?" Lestrade stood up and nearly fell over. He had the glazed look of a man attempting to rouse himself from a deep sleep. "Well, we can't have that. What to do about it, that's the thing?"

"A little of your luck would not go amiss," I prompted.

"I'm not sure about that, Mr Holmes."

"I wouldn't ask if the situation was not dire, Lestrade."

He considered. "Well, as it happens, I might be able to help you. Just the once, mind, I'm not going to make a habit of it. Meet me tomorrow evening seven o'clock at _The George_ public house in Southwark. Rough yourself up a bit; this is south of the river, remember. You think you can find it?"

I assured him I would be there. He left, still dazed, and said he was heading home straight to his bed, probably not the best news for his wife with her clutch of children and newborns.

I sat in the darkness, with only the fire for company to keep out the damp of the evening, finished my soup, and thought back over our conversation. I had not humiliated myself in vain. A rendezvous outside of his usual area suggested that he was receiving racing tips. Tomorrow, he would lead me to the source of that information. The identity of the individual and his motives would determine Lestrade's fate. I hoped for his sake that it was nothing more sinister than a racing man with a keen eye for a decent horse.

Set against the rest of my day, at least in its ending, it had borne fruit. As to my own predicament, it would have to wait. Something Lestrade had said was nagging at the back of my mind, but I was too tired to give it further thought and I had only to close my eyes before I fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

_**So young Mr Holmes is suffering from the side-effects of using that ill-advised panacea for all ills of the 19**__**th**__** century, laudanum [1]. The question is, if he has given it up, why is he still having problems? Has he done himself a permanent mischief? Or is something more troubling occurring?**_

_**Find out in Chapter Eight!**_

* * *

[1] In a world before antibiotics, when death and suffering were commonplace, laudanum – opium dissolved in alcohol – was to be found in every household in the 19th century. It was given to women and children, people with mental health issues, people suffering from insomnia, and prescribed for every condition from tummy ache to tuberculosis. Even that famous Victorian authority on good household management, Mrs. Beeton, included opium in the list of home remedies in her book, _Mrs Beeton's Household Management_ (1861). The problem was that it was highly addictive, overdoses were common, and, as the body grew tolerant of the drug, the dose had to be increased. Side-effects and withdrawal symptoms were horrendous. It could also lead onto worse excesses – think of the plight of Isa Whitney in _The Adventure of the Man with the Twisted Lip_. Until the Pharmacy Act of 1868 limited the sale of dangerous drugs to registered chemists and pharmacists, laudanum was widely available in shops and markets; even after 1868, it was still widely prescribed. Ultimately, it was banned in Britain by the Dangerous Drugs Act in 1920.


	9. Chapter 8

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Eight: The Old Russian Woman**

I awoke late the next afternoon, stiff from a night curled up in the armchair and with Lestrade's mother on my mind. I decided to make use of my Reader's Ticket and took myself the short distance to the Reading Room of the British Museum. I selected a number of medical dictionaries, took them to my desk and began to make a list.

On the one side, I set the known effects from the taking of laudanum and compared them to my own symptoms. To the confusion, stomach cramps, severe drowsiness, restlessness, loss of appetite, cold sweats and hallucinations, I could add a skin rash, which had appeared overnight on the back of my neck and hands, and which I had been worrying at ever since.

The other list comprised of the effects caused by stopping its use, which again in my case would include the sweating and trembling, aching, insomnia, and nausea. I noticed that other symptoms included fever, sneezing and a runny nose, conditions Lestrade had spoken of his mother suffering when his father had removed the tincture from her grasp. There had been times when I had had what I thought were the beginnings of a chill, only to vanish the next day after a good night's sleep. Accordingly I added them to my list.

It is sad that doctors made the worst patients. If so, then the same can be said for consulting detectives. Being the subject of the exercise had blinded me to the possibilities. Looking at the facts as presented in the two lists, had a man come to me presenting such symptoms, I should have concluded that he was a habitual user of laudanum, save on those occasions when he attempted to give it up or ran out. As much as I hated to admit it, Lestrade's instincts had been correct.

I then went further, and from memory attempted to reconstruct those occasions when the symptoms of use or withdrawal were at their worst. What emerged was a pattern of use, followed by three to four days of abstinence. It was enlightening. I knew I had not taken laudanum for over a month; therefore, it was being given to me, unawares. Based on my analysis, the culprit and the method of delivery were fairly obvious. The reason eluded me, however. That would have to wait.

What it did tell me was that I was not losing my mind. The Reading Room is not the place for such a revelation. I had the urge to express my relief in the loudest terms; given the deathly hush of the place, I imagined if I did give vent to my feelings, then I should be ejected forthwith and told not to return. As it was, I took my leave as quietly as I could, still managing to disturb the elderly, bewhiskered gentleman at the next desk who gave me a furious glance when I closed a book too loudly, and headed back to my lodgings to change into 'rough' clothes for the night ahead.

At little after seven, I was outside 'The George', staring up at its sagging galleries and ramshackle roof. A relic of a by-gone age, one could imagine a fair maiden throwing down a favour to a suitor in the courtyard below. Except this was Southwark, it was raining, and the only woman to be seen on the gallery was neither fair nor a maiden. She saw me looking and blew me a kiss. I pulled up my collar and headed inside.

In the gloom of the interior, where the landlord persisted in relying on candlelight, I could just about make out the lone figure of Lestrade sitting at a table near the back, wearing a disreputable brown check and battered hat. He had a glass of some cloudy concoction before him, which could have been anything from cider to ale or the landlord's sops. I slid into the seat beside him and he gave me a look that spoke of his displeasure.

"You're late," he grumbled.

"The traffic was heavy on London Bridge. I had to cross on foot."

"The traffic is _always_ heavy on London Bridge. You should have left earlier."

"I had some personal calls on my time."

"Haven't we all, Mr Holmes? It wouldn't do if the rest of us used that excuse."

He was uncharacteristically out of sorts, and I sensed it had little to do with my tardiness.

"As it happens, I've not been having a very good day myself," said he in answer to my question. "I had the wife complaining because I slept through and didn't hear the babies crying. In retaliation, she lets me sleep till eight o'clock, so I get hauled over the coals for getting in late. I've been behind all day, like the donkey's tail. The wife wasn't too happy about me coming out this evening either. And now you keep me waiting."

"I trust not to the detriment of our purpose?"

"_Detriment_, eh?" he said with sardonic amusement. "If you're using those long words again, you must be feeling better. You certainly look it. Our talk last night did some good, did it?"

"The truth, I am reliably informed, shall set one free."

"I see." His gaze fell on my hands, red raw from my idle scratching. "My mother used to do that."

"Then she has my sympathy. What are we doing here, Lestrade?"

"Waiting for someone." He consulted his watch, snapped the lid shut and thrust it back into this pocket. "And before you ask, yes, he's late too."

"And who might that be?"

"Blind Billy. He's the lookout for a gang of villains who operate out of Bermondsey. You can't miss him. He always has an Irish Wolfhound called Horace with him for company."

I queried his use of the term 'lookout' for it appeared to be a contradiction in terms.

"Nothing wrong with your hearing at least, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade with a grin. "He isn't really blind of course. He pretends to be so he can beg on street corners and keep certain places under observation. If you saw a man hanging around with no purpose, you'd be suspicious. But a beggar and his dog, you'd just throw him a coin and ignore him. It's the perfect disguise for someone who wants to be invisible."

"Ingenious," I had to admit. "He has some interest in racing too, I take it."

"No, but he knows a woman who does." He sat back and folded his arms. His manner had turned self-important, and I gathered I was again to be the recipient of his accumulated wisdom. "I was thinking last night, what with you being out of sorts, that what you needed was a bit of help to get back in the saddle. I thought you might appreciate seeing how we professionals do things."

"Most considerate," I said through gritted teeth. "I am indebted to you, Lestrade."

"So, if we can find Blind Billy, we can make a start. What do you suggest?"

"Visit his known haunts, question his acquaintances–"

"You're making it too hard on yourself, Mr Holmes. Watch and learn, and keep your mouth shut."

I was willing to watching, though whether I would learn much from it was debatable. He tipped the last of his beer on the floor, and I followed in his wake as he sauntered up to the bar and slapped the empty glass down on the counter.

"Same again, please, Mavis," he said to the barmaid, a dour-looking woman wiping a glass with a stained cloth, with her top buttons undone and her black hair pulled back into an untidy bun, leaving strands escaping in every direction. Dutifully, she took out a jug and started to fill Lestrade's glass. I thought I saw a few solid items drift into the contents, and declined when she inclined her head towards me.

"It's quiet in here tonight," said Lestrade. "Where's the regulars?"

"If they're not in prison, then they're out on the pinch," said she. "What with this rain driving the nobs out of town and taking their good stuff with them, times are hard for an honest man to make a living. You know how it is, Angel."

"I surely do," my companion commiserated. "Tell me, you seen Blind Billy around here lately?"

She grunted. "Not since that filthy dog of his did its mess in here. Right where you're standing, young man," she said, looking at me. I took a few steps back. "My old man had to throw him out and tell him not to come back, not till he's got his mongrel trained. It ain't right, letting him do his business all over the place. I know he can't see, but he can smell, can't he?"

"Any idea where he might have gone?" Lestrade asked.

Her eyes narrowed. "'Ere, what's with all the questions? Why d'you want him anyway?"

"I owe him a few quid from a bet."

"What about you?"

She jerked her head in my direction.

"Ignore him, he's my sister's boy. Learning the family trade."

"Any more like him at home?"

"None they'll trust me with."

She sniffed. "Pity. If there's anything else he'd like to learn, Elsie upstairs could teach him a thing or two for five bob."

"Who, him? He ain't got two brass farthings to rub together!" Lestrade said with a laugh. "Now, be a good girl. How about Blind Billy?"

"Try 'The Coach and Horses' in the market. One of the girls has seen him hanging about round there, trying his luck."

Lestrade threw his money on the counter, thanked the helpful Mavis, and we withdrew. Out of her sight, he discarded his drink and looked at me expectantly.

"And that's how the professionals do it," said he. "None of your creeping around looking for clues. If want to know something, you ask."

"I noticed, _Uncle_. I take it they are ignorant of your profession?"

"We wouldn't be walking out of here upright if they did. Blind Billy does, but he won't tell anyone he's helping the police. It's more than his life is worth. It's why I come south of the river when I want information – no one knows me here."

"They read the papers."

"Ah, but they don't know my surname."

"They know you as something. The barmaid called you 'Angel'."

Lestrade shrugged and I perceived a shadow of discomfort cross his face. "A term of affection, nothing more."

"Or is it a reference to your Christian name?"

His face turned puce. "Very well, yes, my name is Gabriel. My mother named us alphabetically from the Bible, and I happened to be number seven. But that goes no further, Mr Holmes. If anyone asks, it's Gerald. The wife and her mother prefer it."

He headed out of the bar, letting the door bang in my face. I followed and found him silently fuming in the courtyard.

"It was not a judgement," I said.

"I should hope not, coming from someone called 'Sherlock'," he shot back.

"Rather that than 'Gerald'. It doesn't suit you."

"Gabriel does?"

"It has an air of originality."

"The other children where I grew up didn't think so. Everyone called me 'Angel'."

"That is nothing to what I've been called."

He studied me, a smile creasing the corner of his mouth. "I can imagine. Come on, 'The Coach and Horses' is this way."

We crossed the busy thoroughfare, dodging cabs and wagons and the accumulated filth of men and horses. A small mangy dog ran between the horses' legs, nipping at the pedestrians and yelping when the touch of a cabman's whip drove him away from the wheels. Like us, he was wet through and muddy. He watched us go with sad, hungry eyes, before returning to scamper after the brewer's dray.

The market had taken up home beneath the railway viaduct and now sprawled south and westwards of the old church of St Saviours'. Bones, cabbage leaves, and fish heads told of a busy gathering, whilst the laughter from the surrounding public houses betrayed the presence of traders who were spending their days' takings. At the corner of the main road, sparsely-lit by gaslight, we came across a man sitting on an upturned fruit crate. He held a long cane, and had a strip of black cloth across his eyes. A flat cap lay on the floor at his feet, containing a handful of coins. At his side, a huge shaggy dog rested his head on the man's knee, only to look up at our approach.

"It's all right, Billy," said Lestrade. "It's only me. I've not come to pinch your earnings."

"I know that, Mr Lestrade," said the man. "Horace would have had you by the throat had it been anyone else."

Horace gave me a baleful stare and licked his lips.

"Who's your friend?"

"My nephew. Looking to follow in the family business."

"Well, that's nice. I wish I had a son to follow me."

"Where? Into prison? Because that's where you'll be heading if you keep up this malarkey, Billy."

Billy promptly pulled off his blind and squinted up at us. "What is it you want, Mr Lestrade? Can't you see I'm working?"

"Have you got anything for me?"

Billy wiped his nose with his hand and transferred the residue to the trusting Horace's head. "Might have," said he, lowering the blind. "Might not."

"Come on, Billy, don't play games. You got any information or not?"

"You gonna put something in my hat? I'm blind and starving, haven't you heard?"

Lestrade sighed, and I watched with consternation as he pulled out a five pound note and dropped it into the cap. The dog promptly picked it up in his mouth and placed it in his master's hand.

"Most kind, sir," said Billy, stowing the money in his coat. "How d'you feel about pig-stealers in Essex?"

"Not much. I can't say I'm too bothered if some small-holder loses his bacon."

"How about 50 pigs?"

"Ah, well, that's a bit different. I'm listening."

He told a good tale, and Lestrade hung on his every word. Details of how the theft was to be managed from a livestock market, the names of those involved, and the thieves' plans for making good their escape, even what they intended to do with their porcine haul; nothing it seemed went unnoticed by Blind Billy.

"There's many a shop and butcher will pay for a pig carcass," said he, "and they're not too fussy where it comes from either, alive or dead. Mind you, they have to pay more if it's dead on account of the slaughtering, so there's many will have it on the trotter, because they gather up the blood for black pudding."

"That's very good, Billy, you've done well."

"You know I like to help, Mr Lestrade. What's good for you is good for me."

"You wouldn't have anything else for me, Billy?"

The man frowned. "How d'you mean?"

"Of the other four-legged variety."

"Oh, that. Well, I hear Vittoria might have something. It'll cost you, mind. It's long odds. Still, I suppose you could do with the money, what with you having the twins and all. Very well, the word is 'alchemy'."

"Thanks, Billy. Much appreciated. You get yourself and Horace some food."

"I will, Mr Lestrade, don't you doubt that for moment. I'd never let young Horace here go hungry. Good bless you, sirs."

Lestrade was still grinning as we ambled away. "That went well," said he. "And another feather in my cap, I'll wager."

"One perhaps better shared with your colleagues," I suggested, mindful of Matthew's concerns.

"Let them take the credit, you mean? You think they'd do the same for me?"

I tried a different tack. "From where does he get his information?"

He shrugged. "Does it matter? He hasn't been wrong so far."

"Considering the risk, five pounds hardly seems worth his while."

"Perhaps you can turn your nose up at five pounds, Mr Holmes, but some of us can't." Lestrade seemed affronted, although the next time he spoke his sour mood had passed. "Speaking of which, here's a tenner." He handed me a ten pound note. "Pay Gregson off and be done with the man. And don't go making wagers you can't afford."

I took the money, remembering the other night when Lestrade had made the grand gesture in the public house on the night of daughters' birth by buying everyone a round of drinks. Bradley had made much of this show of wealth, and it was evident that Lestrade had not learned his lesson to the extent of exercising caution.

"Don't get too excited," said he. "It's a loan, not for keeps. You can pay me back when our horse comes in."

"You do not appear to need the money."

"This is what I put by for a rainy day," said he, patting his top pocket. "I consider my spending an investment. Blind Billy's information helps me at the Yard, you – if you ever get your brains back – might prove useful again in the future, and Vittoria is going to tell me how to make one pound turn into a hundred overnight."

"Vittoria?"

Lestrade smiled. "Oh, you'll like her, Mr Holmes. She has a _particular_ talent."

The pursuit of that talent led us through the streets and the rain-polished cobbles to a tavern that doubled as a music hall. Outside a small Temperance group was gathered, bearing placards that warned against the evils of drink. Among them stood a figure in a black gown with a hood pulled up over his head and a large scythe in his hand. I told myself this vision was nothing more than a product of my laudanum-addled brain, and followed Lestrade inside, where sixpence saw us admitted into a bright auditorium thronging with men and women struggling to find one of the few empty chairs clustered before the stage.

The current act, a group of clog-dancers, were not to the audience's taste, and were being pelted with orange peel by the people in the first few rows. They left the stage in a hurry, their place being taken by a man of stronger constitution who proceeded to demonstrate sword-swallowing with musical accompaniment provided by three campanologists with hand bells. It was somewhat incongruous, as the one bore no relation to the other, although the audience approved, if their squeals of horror as he drove a sword down his throat and their cheers when he pulled it out unscathed were anything by which to judge.

"You've got to admire them," Lestrade commented.

"Yes, I'm sure it takes a good deal of practice."

He tutted. "Not him up there, I meant that lot out in the street, trying to make us all tea-drinkers. I wouldn't like to be out on a night like this doing what they do. Did you see that fellow dressed as the 'Grim Reaper'?"

"You saw him?"

"Couldn't miss him. Why d'you ask?"

"No reason," I said absently, silently glad that my hallucinations were not manifest tonight. "Who exactly is Vittoria?"

"You'll see. Look, there's a couple of seats over there. I'll get us a drink. We've a wait before she comes on."

He was swallowed up by the crowd in the standing gallery in his quest to find refreshments. I fought my way through the unruly, perspiring mob to several uncomfortable chairs, where the floor crunched beneath my feet as I trod on a layer of walnut shells and broken biscuits. I near fell into the seat, causing the man beside me to complain about my elbows and the fuss I was making and how he couldn't hear the performer, an unimpressive man attempting to conjure a rabbit from his pocket and a playing card from his hat. As it was, he got the two muddled up, causing the audience to bray like donkeys. For his next trick, he attempted to read the minds of several members of the audience. The individuals he picked had clearly been placed there; not even I, when I had done my turn in Hoxton, had been able to deduce birth-dates and mothers' maiden names by simply looking at a man.

The crowd lauded his endeavours, however, and by the time Lestrade found me bearing two bottles of porter and curling ham sandwiches, the magician was being cheered from the stage. He was quickly replaced by an illuminated fountain and 'Maria the Boneless Wonder', a woman who could wrap her legs around her head and fold herself into a box. When she proved unable to close the lid, the jeers started and a hail of orange peel flew over our heads. She was quickly carried off, and the announcer stepped forward to introduce the next act.

"This is Vittoria," said Lestrade. "You'll see."

"And now," said the announcer, "pre-eminent amongst the empresses of the air and the kings of the wire, I give you Vittoria, the Circus Belle!"

A wire had been lowered and with it a single trapeze swing. From behind the curtain, a woman sprang forth, her fleshiness barely contained in the pink satin costume which severely pinched her at the waist above her voluminous bloomers. The crowd cheered wildly as she performed cartwheels across the stage, before leaping into the air to land lightly on the wire. With apparent ease and her arms thrust above her head, she managed to lower herself to the wire, legs spread fore and aft, before straddling it and then tumbling from one end to the other. From there, with a mighty leap, she propelled herself into the air, grabbed the trapeze and, with a little manoeuvring, swung upside down. Her _pièce de résistance_ whilst in this posture was to peel and eat a hard-boiled egg. If small fragments of shell flew out into the audience, they appeared not to mind, but cheered all the more. I lost my appetite after a chewed morsel of egg landed in my lap, after which I handed my sandwich to Lestrade.

The performance complete, Lestrade indicated I should follow him. By degrees and a good deal of pushing and shoving, we found ourselves at the stage door, and confronted by a large, uncompromising man with a face long battered out of shape in the boxing ring. Lestrade pressed a sovereign into his pocket, and the giant guarding the door stepped aside. I had one last look at the stage, where a dog act was in full flow, before joining Lestrade in the darkened quarters backstage.

It was as I remembered it. The smell of grease-paint, the squeal of performing animals, and the rush of the breeze as the chorus girls galloped past clutching at their feathered head-dresses and giggling at the sight of newcomers. As before, I left a hand touch my person, and spun round in time to see the last and stoutest of them winking at me as she scurried after the others.

We soon found Vittoria's room as her name was emblazoned on the door. Lestrade knocked, announced himself as 'Angel', and was bidden to enter. Inside, the lady was sprawled on a day-bed, all heaving bosoms and overbearing perfume. She was still clad in her costume, the only concession to modesty being the addition of a thin dressing gown, and was fanning herself furiously.

"Gawd blimey," she said. "It ain't half hot out there tonight."

"You draw a big crowd, Vittoria."

"Don't I know it! Say, Angel, what d'you think of the act?"

"Fantastic. I haven't seen better."

She smiled and rose, still fanning herself as she prowled over to him. "You think so, sweetheart?"

"Take it from me, I've seen a few so I should know. You're still the best."

"I should be, after forty years in the business."

"I remember. You started out as the cannonball girl."

She turned her gaze to me. "What about you?"

"A triumph," I said diplomatically.

"Ooh, get him, 'a _triumph_'," she echoed, mockingly. "What's your name, handsome?"

"He's my nephew," said Lestrade with a grin. "We call him _trouble_."

"Good-looking family you've got, Angel," Vittoria purred, returning to her couch. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"I've got a word for you, Vittoria. 'Alchemy'."

She nodded. "And you want me to give you a name? Happens that I do have one. Question is, what's it worth to you?"

"Five pounds?"

She shook her head. "Ten. She's worth it, this one, should pay big money."

"Very well, ten pounds it is."

"Ten pounds... _and_ a kiss from handsome here."

I glared at Lestrade, but he seemed oblivious. "I think that can be arranged," said he, taking two five pound notes from his pocket.

Vittoria snatched them up and stuffed them deep down into her cleavage. "Ascot. The old Russian woman. Same rules, save your bet till race day." Her eyes rolled to me. "Now, where's my kiss?"

"Well, go on," said Lestrade, nudging me in the ribs. "Don't keep the lady waiting."

She was wearing a salacious smirk as I approached to keep my part of the bargain. Her lips parted in anticipation, only for the smile to fade as I took her hand and kissed it. As a compromise, I thought it was admirable. Vittoria, however, had other ideas. Before I had raised my head, she had grabbed my necktie and forced herself on me. I endured a few unpleasant moments while she swabbed the back of my mouth with her tongue before releasing me.

"Now that's more like it," she crowed. "I don't have the pleasure of many men with their own teeth. Mind you, handsome, you're missing one at the back. You want to watch that. Once you lose one, the others are quick to follow. I should know."

She grinned, revealing the gaps in her teeth. I smiled weakly, much to Lestrade's amusement, and was dragged from the room in a daze. Outside, he offered me his handkerchief and I wiped the strands of her saliva from my mouth and chin.

"Charming woman," said he. "Very friendly."

"Forward, I should have said."

"Worth it though. We got what we came for."

"All I heard was something about 'an old Russian woman'. I trust I won't have to be mauled by anyone else tonight."

Lestrade took my arm and led me away from Vittoria's door. "No, nothing like that. Here's where the real detective work begins."

We returned to the auditorium and found a table away at the back. Lestrade produced a _Racing Calendar_ from his coat pocket and spread it out.

"Now," he explained, "what we're looking for is a horse named after an old Russian woman. We know it's running at Ascot. All we have to do is find it."

"It seems unnecessarily complicated."

"They have to be careful. This is privileged information. If everyone knew, the odds would plummet. As it is, you can't lay your bet till race day. If you can do it at the course, so much the better. That way the odds stay long and you get a better return."

I sat back and regarded him. His eyes were lit with the greed of the man who sees easy money about to come his way, oblivious to the perils of the path he walked.

"You don't find this... _unusual_?" I queried.

"No. They know something about the horse. Perhaps it's been doing well in training lately. The trainers sell that sort of information to racing touts."

"A good performance on the gallops would not guarantee a win."

Lestrade glanced up at me. "It's not fixed, if that's what you're saying."

"How do you know?"

"Because it's impossible these days. Now, if they told me to bet on the favourite to lose, that would make me suspicious." He sighed. "Look, do you want to help me or not? There's nothing wrong with having a flutter on the horses. Vittoria has come through with good information in the past, and I'm not one to look a gift horse in the mouth."

"Perhaps you should," I suggested.

"I need the money, as you do," he retorted. "The wife and her mother have been talking. She wants one of them newfangled washing machines, and her mother has been filling her head with nonsense about moving to a better area. That sort of thing costs money, Mr Holmes, and I'm not the one to say no to her."

"Perhaps you should," I repeated.

"After she's just had the twins? Not likely. I didn't say I minded, but the gas is costing me twelve pounds a year, to say nothing of the forty-six pounds we spend on coal and coke. The wife has been hinting at us getting a maid of all work to help her out with the children too. That'll be another twelve pounds. Tell me, what expenses do you have? How much is your rent?"

"Four guineas a week."

"Paid for by your brother, no doubt. And you still can't manage. Well, until you've got a family of your own, don't speak out of turn. Now, an old Russian woman?"

I had tried to make him see sense, but he was having none of it. I scanned the page, and could find no Russian women, old or otherwise. Lestrade was dissatisfied by the result, and took my section of paper to check for himself. Suddenly, he let out a cry of triumph. I looked at the name he indicated.

"She was Prussian, not Russian."

"There's a difference?"

"Of course."

"But wasn't she Empress of Russia?"

"Yes, by marriage."

"There you are then. You forget, Mr Holmes, the men we're dealing with aren't educated like what you and I are. Empress of Russia is close enough, plus she's old, so there you. That's our horse – _Catherine the Great_!"

* * *

_**Well, thanks to Lestrade's mother, Mr Holmes knows what's wrong with him. He says he knows who is doing it and how, but would anyone like to theorise why before more is revealed in the next chapter...!**_

_**As for the racing tip, it *would* have to be the horse owned by the family of Mycroft's fiancée. Is it all connected? Or is it just coincidence?**_

_**As for Vittoria, it's no wonder Holmes put her in his 'good old index' after that encounter!**_

_**Find out more in Chapter Nine!**_


	10. Chapter 9

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Nine: Stalking Horse**

I returned home after a night of wine, women and Lestrade to find that Mrs Bulstrode had again been busy. A bowl of cold vegetable stew was waiting for me. It was time to test my hypothesis.

I warmed it, tasted it, found that apart from being a little too salty, it did not assault the senses with strong flavours, and finished it. I then spent the rest of the night awake and in thought – that is, when I not was being plagued by aching, shaking limbs, a fevered brow and the sort of yawning calculated to break one's jaw.

By daybreak, I was plagued with a thick head and a runny nose, and had seen a horde of goblins crawl from the fireplace and dance on the ceiling. As diverting as they had been, they had not distracted me from arriving at several conclusions.

Lestrade was in grave trouble. Whether he realised it or not, his informer, Blind Billy, was not as helpful as he claimed or altruistic enough to risk life and liberty for the money doled out to him. The words 'carrot and donkey' came to mind, and whilst the inspector's intervention might be good news for the pig-farmers of Essex, I had every certainty that as before, another, more serious crime would take place while the police were occupied elsewhere.

Then there was the question of the horse called Catherine the Great. I have never believed in coincidence. That Lestrade should have been given the name of a horse tipped to win the Albert Stakes at Ascot that also happened to be owned by the family of Mycroft's fiancée stretched the realms of probability beyond breaking point. Whether from exhaustion or the waning effects of laudanum, I could not see clearly any the connection between the two. Certainly it existed, but to what end?

More tellingly, it was evident that the race was fixed. That was where I would have to concentrate my investigation. Mycroft was fond of telling me that a consulting detective should consult, but clearly a little more effort was required on my part. The problem was, I was far from my best. I had been systematically poisoned and subdued, and, like Lestrade's mother, would have to continue with the course if only to keep the fevers and goblins at bay. That at least was something I could resolve without delay.

At half past seven, I left the goblins to their sport and took my empty bowl down to the kitchen, where I found Mrs Bulstrode busy warming the teapot in preparation for her indispensable morning cup. A hearty woman, with a warm northern accent that placed her origins in Yorkshire, she summoned forth an affability which at this early hour was beyond me.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes," said she, smiling in genuine pleasure when she saw me. "I don't often see you down here."

"I slept poorly. I saw nothing to be gained by prolonging the exercise."

"I am sorry to hear that," she commiserated. "But you shouldn't have put yourself to the trouble of bringing down your plate, sir. I've have got that when I did your room."

"It was no trouble."

"Well, now you are here, would you like a nice cup of tea?" The kettle was whistling on the stove, and with a cloth around her hand, she removed it and began to fill the teapot. "Nothing like a nice cup of tea when you're feeling out of sorts. I expect you were over-tired. I didn't hear you come in till gone ten last night."

"I expect I ate rather too late." I took a seat at her kitchen table and she placed a delicate porcelain cup embossed with flowers before me. "The stew was not up to your usual standards, Mrs Bulstrode."

She looked a little hurt, but continued to fill my cup. "You've never had any complaints before, Mr Holmes."

"I found it lacking in something. Tincture of opium, perhaps."

The lid rattled as she dropped the teapot onto the table. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir."

"Yes, you do, Mrs Bulstrode. You've been adding laudanum to my food every three to four days. You chose strongly-flavoured dishes to disguise the taste. Really, I must congratulate you. Few men have been able to deceive me thus and even fewer women. That is a rare distinction."

I took a sip of tea. It was too weak for my liking, but it did ease the dryness in my throat.

"Come now, don't look so alarmed," I continued, for her face had turned ashen and she looked about to faint. "As I know, you may as well tell me. It was on my brother's instructions, was it not?"

She nodded, and eased herself into the chair on the other side of the table. "I've been dreading the day when you found out. And I knew you would, you being clever like your brother."

But not clever enough, I thought to myself.

"Yes, sir, I was adding laudanum to your food," said she, wringing her apron in her hands in an agony of guilt and despair. "But it was for the best of reasons."

"I believe you."

"Well, sir, when your brother took the room for you, he said that you were ill. He said too that you were a difficult patient and wouldn't take your medicine. He said he couldn't stand by and see you suffer, so he asked me if I would add the laudanum to your food to keep the pain at bay. Every couple of days was his instruction, although that didn't seem right to me. My old man needed his every day for his back ache and the devil to pay if he couldn't get it. Still, I thought your brother knew best, so I did what I was told. And he was paying me an extra five shillings a week for looking after you, so who was I to argue?"

Who indeed, I wondered. Mycroft was a force to be reckoned with at the best of times, and I sensed the landlady held him in something approaching awe. Had I died in the course of the experiment, I was certain she would have rationalised her role in a similar vein.

"Well, it seemed to help," she went on, "but after a while you seemed to get worse again, so I asked your brother and he told me to increase the dose and to keep increasing it. Then, you started taking it for yourself, and I thought I wouldn't have to give you any more. Only I found that empty bottle and I knew you'd stopped, so I had to start again."

Tears were welling in her eyes. "Oh, Mr Holmes, are you very angry with me, sir? I know it was wrong of us, but me and your brother didn't mean no harm, I swear it."

And yet the harm had been done. I had anger, but it was not reserved for Mrs Bulstrode. On the contrary, I was grateful to her for confirming that my problems of late were due to opium addiction and not a softening of the brain. The former could be addressed, the latter not so easily.

"Now I come to think of it," said she with a heavy sniff, wiping her nose on her apron. "I think I may have kept one of your brother's letters. It didn't seem right to me at the time to be interfering with another man's medicine. I thought I should keep it, just in case."

It would have been foolish of Mycroft to commit anything so damning to paper. The lowest government lackey would surely know better. Any doubts I was starting to have as to his role in my poisoning were dispelled, however, when Mrs Bulstrode pulled a flaking black leather Bible from the shelf, rifled through the pages, selected a sheet of paper, appropriately filed under 'Judges', and handed it to me.

A cursory glance was enough.

It was my brother's writing. It was my brother's signature. I was well-acquainted with both to know that the letter I held in my hand was not a forgery.

It set out in stark detail his requirements for my treatment, how the doctors he had sent had confirmed that my health was deteriorating, and that it was more necessary than ever for Mrs Bulstrode to continue to infuse my food with laudanum and increase the dose regularly. He had even increased his payment to one guinea a week to defray her expenses and inconvenience.

I was faced with an unpalatable truth. My brother had condemned me to a slow, lingering decline. I wondered what had prompted his actions. At what point had I moved from mere nuisance to a liability?

From what Mrs Bulstrode had said, Mycroft had been formulating this plan since the events at Postern Prison. These were the rooms _he_ had selected on my behalf when he had descended Jove-like to pluck me from my Spitalfields hovel, _he_ had secured the services of Mrs Bulstrode, and _his_ were the lies that informed her I came to her lodgings as a hopeless invalid.

I am not a fanciful man, but in that moment I could have sworn that a chill swept into that tiny kitchen with its claustrophobic blast of heat and cut me to the quick.

I thought I saw the reasoning behind his actions. Over the course of my last few cases, he had tried variously to cut off my finances, alienate me from sources of cases, and most recently to draw me into his world with offers of employment in Whitehall. If these attempts seemed contradictory, they had a common thread. They were the means of gaining control over me. To Mycroft's annoyance, I had held firm.

What then was left to him but to incapacitate me through illness? When he had milked the sympathy of his peers with his protestations that he had done all he could for his wayward younger brother, my death would be the logical conclusion. A little extra laudanum one night, on top of the usual dose, and I would cease to be a problem. The beauty of his plan was that it required very little effort from him.

I did not doubt now this had been his plan for me from the outset. That he felt safe enough to commit his instructions to paper indicated that he did not fear discovery. Clearly he had not reckoned on Mrs Bulstrode's sense of self-interest or Lestrade's revelation about his mother. He was fallible, after all. His over-confidence had proved to be my salvation.

There was one incident, however, for which I could not account. Following the night of Mycroft's engagement dinner, I had experienced the same symptoms as when I had in the past consumed one of Mrs Bulstrode's laudanum-laced stews. I thought back to the bitter-tasting brandy that Malpas and I had shared, our quiet talk on the terrace, and the look on Mycroft's face when he had seen us together.

I could construct several theories as to the events of that night. Either he feared Malpas as I had initially thought, or the man was in his employ. If he feared him, then he had tampered with our drinks, to remove me from his company and send Malpas home to his bed. That the man was not reported dead suggested that he too was a habitual taker of laudanum.

If, on the other hand, Malpas was working on Mycroft's orders, then he had lied about the bitter taste of his brandy and had said so only to encourage me to believe that there was nothing untoward.

On the whole, I tended towards Malpas being another of my brother's hirelings. I did not believe the invention that Mycroft, with the ear of the Prime Minister and the ambition to secure the hand of a daughter of the nobility, had any need to consult a so-called 'advisor', as he had described Malpas. I saw now that his role that night had been one of hired murderer, ladling laudanum into my brandy with the intention of ridding Mycroft of his problematic sibling once and for all.

With that in mind, Mycroft's expression when he saw us together took on a more sinister aspect. What I had interpreted as a fear of Malpas could be read as the horror of discovering that I was still on feet and that their plan to poison me by overdose of laudanum had failed. Or worse, the fear of betrayal that naturally follows when one is obliged to take another man into one's confidence. It explained why Mycroft had been overly concerned by the content of our conversation. If I was alive, then he must have been expecting blackmail to follow.

If he was troubled by his lack of success, I had little sympathy. He had tried and failed to kill me. By now, it would be evident that he had not been betrayed, but that Malpas had underestimated Mrs Bulstrode's zealousness in raising my tolerance levels. As I had never known Mycroft to be easily discouraged, it followed he would try again.

For the first time in a long time, I was aware of a state approaching apprehension. When one knows one's opponent, there is an understanding of capabilities and limitations. There are few men who inspire terror in me, but in my brother I knew that I had met my match. Not simply equalled, but excelled.

I knew Mycroft resented me to some degree, but had thought it no more than in the usual way of a child ousted by a younger sibling. We had spent much of our childhoods apart, and his absences away at school meant that I had been raised in the manner of an only child. It was only when we were older, when our parents had passed on, that he had began to intrude in my life. I had largely dismissed this as benevolent interference. I had ignored his jibes about how much easier his life would have been had I been born female. I was realising now how wrong I had been.

In my ignorance, I had failed to appreciate the depth of his hatred. I had been manipulated and out-manoeuvred, and brought to the brink of destruction.

I also knew Mycroft would not make the same mistake twice. I had to remove myself to a place where he would not think to look to find me, and soon.

"Did I do the right thing, sir?" Mrs Bulstrode pressed, fearful of my continuing silence.

"Yes, you did." Although she would never know it, she had saved my life. "However, now I am aware, I would prefer to administer my own medication. I shall be needing the laudanum."

She made no argument. A glass bottle half-filled with the familiar red liquid was selected from the back of one of her cluttered cupboards and handed to me.

"And the dose?" I said, uncapping the lid to add the tincture to my tea.

"Seventy drops."

The sudden knot in my stomach had nothing to do with my lack of the drug. Seventy drops was over double the dose I had been giving myself. To anyone unaccustomed to the drug, it was enough to kill twice over. The severity of my problem was becoming apparent.

"Seventy?" I repeated, not sure if I had misheard.

She nodded. "I always gave you a couple of extra drops every time I brought your meals. You weren't getting the benefit of it otherwise."

I measured a quantity several drops short of the full dose into my cup, drank it and began to feel the lethargy of the night evaporate. The sweats returned, the demons shrank back into the shadows and I felt something approaching normality, or at least the illusion of that condition.

Thanks to my brother, I would have to keep taking the drug for weeks to come. Thanks to Lestrade and the amassed medical knowledge of the Reading Room of British Museum, I knew how to wean myself from it. I owed the inspector more than that, for the nature of his particular problem had suggested a means of escape.

Mrs Bulstrode, when informed that I would be away for a week or more, predictably began to fret. What was I to tell my brother if he questioned my absence, she wanted to know. I said simply that it was for the purposes of the continued improvement of my health. This seemed to please her. Had I told her the truth, that I was intending to inveigle my way into a horse-racing yard, she might not have been so content to accept my answer at face-value.

I gathered a few things into a bag and headed out into the morning traffic. A few purchases completed the necessities I would need for the task ahead, and then I contemplated how I would re-acquaint myself with the saddle.

It had been some years since I had ridden. In the country, travel by horseback is still fairly common among those who cannot or will nor bear the expense of a carriage. In town, opportunities present themselves rarely, so familiar are we with the ease of hailing a cab. Save the wealthy, few keep a stable in town. For those who need them, the service can be readily obtained. Thus, I found no difficulty in finding a horse for hire.

The owner of the stable, a disreputable fellow in a brown-check suit stained at the bottom of the trousers by splashes of muddy water, looked me up and down, and grunted something to the stable-boy, who brought froth a placid-looking dark bay beast which had all the enthusiasm of an ancient carthorse. This I rejected and asked for something with more spirit. The owner grinned and told the lad to fetch 'Beelzebub'. A chestnut gelding with a rolling eye and a liking for prancing on the spot was produced. Add to that a nasty habit of lunging at exposed human flesh, and I could see why the horse had earned his name.

Owner and lad shared a grin as I heaved myself into the saddle. Then, releasing the bridle, the boy slapped the horse on the flank and we were off at a mad gallop helter-skelter into the traffic. Between cabs, narrowly avoiding pedestrians, scattering small children and small dogs, it took all my strength to haul on the reins and bring the horse to a stop before we collided with a brewer's dray. With the drayman's angry words following us, we settled into a pace somewhere between a trot and a canter, and, in an awkward manner that saw us moving more sideways than forward, finally made it to Hyde Park.

The royal park early in the morning was thronged with the fashionable in their carriages and young men attempting to impress with their latest equine acquisitions on the length of sandy track known as 'Rotten Row'. Glares and grumbles accompanied us as we continued our battle, no quarter being given on either side. We jostled, pranced, reared and bucked our way to the end of the track, by which time the horse was flecked with foam and I was raw from aching in every muscle.

With the hour past ten o'clock, reluctantly I turned the horse's head back the way we had come and our battle commenced anew. Near where we had entered the park, I saw a familiar figure in black riding side-saddle on a mettlesome dun mare.

"Lady Hester," I called, dragging my horse into a prancing trot beside her.

She looked up, vaguely alarmed by the sudden appearance of a barely-controlled horse in such close proximity. Beneath the black hat and veil, loose tendrils of hair had escaped the pins to frame her face. The exercise had raised colour to her cheeks in a most fetching manner and her eyes were bright. Unlike my own poor efforts, she rode with ease. The gloved hands that held the plaited reins were steady and the horse, though champing at the bit, had no doubt as to who was in charge.

"Good morning, Mr Holmes," said she cautiously. "This is an unexpected surprise. Or perhaps not? Should I read anything into your appearance here this morning?"

"Why should you imagine such a thing?"

"On the one hand, you told me that you rode infrequently – and your posture confirms that – and on the other, I mentioned that I ride here at this hour every day. I am led to the conclusion that you have sought me out."

She smiled sweetly, and I could not deny what she had said. "You are perspicacious, my lady. As it happens, I needed to speak with you."

There came the sound of someone clearing their throat, and I glanced over to the other side of the horse where a plump woman of middling years in brown hat and drab, sensible clothing was driving a governess cart pulled by a sturdy black pony.

"May I introduce my lady's maid and chaperone, Mrs Sarah Lucas," said Lady Hester. "This is Mr Sherlock Holmes, Lucas. His brother is to marry my sister."

The woman's hard blue eyes bored into me, and I had the impression that she was taking my measure. As if in answer to my thoughts, she lifted the whip she held in readiness should the defence of her charge's honour be required.

"I mean no harm, madam," I said. "I merely wish to speak with Lady Hester."

The woman said nothing, and continued to stare.

"Do I take that as approval?" I asked my companion.

"It is as good as you will get," said she. "Lucas cannot speak. Her late husband was a violent drunkard, who one night cut out her tongue for daring to ask where he had been. My mother took her in as a lady's maid, and now she is mine."

"And the husband?"

Lucas drew a finger across her throat, her expression unwavering.

"He died in mysterious circumstances," said Lady Hester. She waited for me to say something, and when I hesitated, continued. "The police were never able to determine the identity of the killer. A pity, that."

Her sly smile left me to draw my own conclusions.

"Lucas is a fierce protector," said she. "If you have something to say, I will hear you out. However, mind your manners, Mr Holmes. Lucas is watching."

As if to confirm her mistress' statement, Lucas caught my eye and again drew her finger across her throat.

"My intentions are honourable, I can assure you," I said hurriedly. "In matter of fact, I find that I need your assistance."

She raised her eyebrows, as though she could not imagine such a circumstance where that might be necessary. "Mine? How intriguing."

"I have concerns," I began, "about the safety of your racehorse."

"About Cathy?" said she incredulously. "Why ever would you think that?"

"I have good reason to believe that someone means the horse harm. With your permission, I would like to offer my services in protecting it."

Lady Hester shook her head. "I do not understand. Why should anyone wish to harm Cathy?"

"Perhaps to prevent her from winning the Albert Stakes."

She laughed. "She will not win. That is my father's foolish fancy. The best she has ever been placed is fourth in a field of four runners."

"Nevertheless, I have reason to believe her chances have improved."

"You are not serious, surely?" She studied my face, and her expression grew sombre. "Yes, I see that you are, Mr Holmes. But, forgive me for asking, why would you, a man who spends his days at a desk at Whitehall, care about my horse?"

It would not have been my first choice to take her into my confidence. I had known her for scarcely an evening, although it had been enough to be impressed by her spirit and courage. Given time, I should have found another way into the racing stables, but events and my brother were against me. Nor was she unjustified in asking the question. I decided I had to trust to the truth, and with good reason. One of my morning purchases had given me further insight into the lady's character and I had seen something that encouraged me to believe she would embrace the plan I was about to lay before her.

"I fear I have been less than honest with you, Lady Hester," I admitted. "I do not work with my brother, nor am I in the employ of any government department. In fact, I have no connection with Whitehall at all, save for those occasions when they have been in need of my services."

"Then what are you?"

"Your father would not approve."

"No, but I might. You intrigue me, Mr Holmes."

I took a deep breath, and the horse took the opportunity to snatch at the bit, near wrenching my arms from their sockets. Regaining control, I tried again.

"I am a consulting detective."

It had been a long time since I felt confident in saying that. Now I knew the cause of my problems, the confusion in my head had abated and the world had begun to make sense again.

She stared at me, her expression torn between amusement and disbelief. "What a queer fellow you are. I can see now why George calls you 'Dotty'. You are right, my father would not approve. I can see now why it was kept from him." She giggled. "So tell me, what does a 'consulting detective' do? Do you follow people?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you sneak about and look in the windows of private houses?"

"If the case demands."

"Then you are like those enquiry agents one reads about in the newspapers."

"No. I do not concern myself with the petty deceptions of married couples or the infidelity of wayward spouses, Lady Hester. I have a peculiar faculty for observation and deduction. It is how I can say, for example, that you are deeply unhappy about your sister's marriage."

She gave a soft snort. "You knew that much last night."

"If I were to say that you and your sister have spent the morning comforting each other, would I be far from the truth?"

"No, Mr Holmes, you would not. But how–?"

"There are marks left by tears upon your shoulder, my lady, and the long dark hairs I see there can only have come from your sister."

She looked away, and I could tell by the hard set of her jaw that I had touched a nerve. Finally, she glanced in my direction, and her eyes had taken on a watery film.

"She is unhappy, and so am I. In truth, Mr Holmes, I do not want my sister to marry your brother. I dare say he is a good man, but he is cold and distant. My sister needs warmth. She will not flourish in this marriage."

Given recent events, I could not disagree.

"However, you have shown me a way to free her from this match. I shall tell my father of your 'profession', such as it is."

"Is that what 'Lady Agatha of Harpington Hall' would do?"

I drew the slim volume I had purchased that morning from my pocket. The title read '_Lady Agatha and the Midnight Rescue_'. Lady Hester glanced at it dismissively.

"Have you read it?"

"I found it most illuminating."

Her face clouded. "Do not mock me, Mr Holmes. They are silly tales told for children."

"On the contrary, I found it revealing of the author's hopes and aspirations for a more adventurous life."

She looked away. "I am not Lady Agatha. She is free to do whatever she wishes."

"By extension, my lady, it follows that you wish to be able to do the same."

"I will never know such freedom, not in my lifetime. This world belongs to men like my father and your brother. I can only hope that it will not always be so."

We rode in silence for a moment before she regained her composure.

"In answer to your earlier question, Mr Holmes, Lady Agatha would help you without question and there would be a happy ending. That is the nature of fiction. In my experience, 'happy endings' are only to be found in fairy-tales. I would regret exposing you, as you have only shown me consideration, but I must do whatever I must to secure my sister's happiness."

"Then allow me to suggest an alternative which would trouble your conscience less." I saw from her expression that she was interested. "I will undertake to find Mr Arnold Cummings of Pennsylvania. What you do with that information will be entirely up to you. I only stipulate that your side of the bargain is not dependent on his favourable answer."

For the first time that morning, her enthusiasm was evident. "That is acceptable. I believe it was my father's doing. If so, there is time that we may yet put right this wrong. However, if he ended their engagement of his own volition, then my sister must be content with that." Her eyes were shining with something approaching exhilaration when she met my gaze. "What would you have me do?"

"I need a letter of introduction for employment at your father's racing stables."

"They are not my father's," said she with a suppressed laugh. "The trainer, Mr Harold Milton, is employed by the Duke of Hampton. He trains Cathy and a number of horses for other owners for a set fee." She considered, tilting her head in thought. "He may concede to a request for a man of our choosing to tend her. Yes, that may work. However, it would carry more weight coming from my father. Our trainer does not hold the opinion of women in much esteem."

"I would prefer that Lord Roselynn did not know."

"Did I suggest that I would tell him? I shall compose the letter. I have forged my father's signature before now."

I was aware that during the course of our conversation, the chaperone's gaze had never wavered.

"Oh, I trust Lucas implicitly," said Lady Hester when I mentioned my concern. "She was devoted to my mother, and has no love for my father or indeed for any man. She will not betray us."

As if in answer, Lucas nodded. I had to trust that Lady Hester was right.

"You shall find your letter waiting for you with Mr Milton on the morrow," said she decisively. "Who shall I say you are? Holmes is a common surname, but 'Sherlock' is perhaps too distinctive given our families' connection."

One name sprang naturally to mind, bringing with it all the old associations of a case that had not turned in my favour. I had thought I had left Henry Holmes behind at Postern Prison; fate had conspired to give him another chance.

I thought our business was at an end, but Lady Hester had other ideas.

"Will you permit me to make an observation, Mr Holmes?" said she.

"Certainly."

"Mr Milton is an exacting man. He will not be impressed by your display of horsemanship, if what I have seen so far is anything by which to judge. Were you not taught to ride as part of your 'girl's education'?"

"Not in any formal sense."

"Well, in my 'girl's education', it was considered most necessary," said she. "Head up, heels down, that is the thing to remember. And do lower your hands, Mr Holmes. If you give the horse his head like that, he will take it. We have a little time before I am due home. Will you ride with me? I may teach you to master a thoroughbred yet!"

* * *

_**So it's off the races for young Mr Holmes.**_

_**Probably best to stay out of Mycroft's way too. Who'd have thought he would have tried to kill his little brother?**_

_**Continued in Chapter Ten!**_


	11. Chapter 10

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Ten: Back in the Saddle**

The next afternoon found me in Suffolk, heading out of the seaside town of Lowestoft on a lonely road towards the racing stables of the Duke of Hampton.

My destination, situated some six miles to the south of the town, was along a coast road, bordered on one side by high ground leading down to sand, shingle and the sea, and whilst scrubby grasslands and heath bent under the driving winds on the other. Away from London, the air was sweeter, fanned by strong breezes from the North Sea and carrying the varied song of warblers and woodlark. A marsh harrier circled above, a silent observer of my progress, and somewhere in the distance came the throaty call of a bittern.

I was in a different county with a different identity. I was renewed of purpose and clear of mind. Better yet, I was away from Mycroft's rancorous influence. I still carried the burden of laudanum, but with care was keeping the worst of its effects at bay.

On that late Saturday afternoon in early June, not even the heavy clouds, biting cold and aching muscles from yesterday's exertions could dim my resolve. In six days' time, a race would be run, the result of which would determine a man's life. The day after, Mycroft was to marry. What might have seemed daunting to some was the breath of life to me.

I had a case after months of inactivity and confusion. I was myself again.

I had left London soon after my meeting with Lady Hester. I had invested some time in pursuit of her question at the American Exchange in the Strand, and had an answer within the hour.

Yes, they remembered Mr Arnold Cummings. He had been a client. They had forwarded his mail and taken messages for him through the duration of his stay in England. I confided that I had made the gentleman's acquaintance and had wished to offer him an interest in a going concern, which only his abrupt departure had prevented. Would they give me his address? Of course. Where business was concerned, they were only too pleased to be able to help.

Mr Cummings, as it transpired, was a man of his word. He had no less than sixteen 'dry goods stores' dotted across Pennsylvania, and by all accounts was a man any father would have been proud to have his daughter marry. For Lord Roselynn, however, the taint of 'trade' was insurmountable. I sent my findings to Lady Hester, and left the matter in her hands.

Before leaving London, I had changed my usual clothes to something rather more rustic. I had found what I needed amongst the bags of a rag-man in Petticoat Lane. From amongst the mountains of faded silks, battered broad-clothes and ragged jackets, I had selected a pair of worn brown trousers, serviceable corduroy waistcoat of a sandy colour, and tattered dark brown coat with unmatched buttons. I topped this off with a cloth cap in an old tweed material.

The clothes-seller had looked askance at my intended purchases and had decided his usual sales patter, that the trousers had once belonged to a Cabinet minister and were the best of quality, would be wasted on me. Instead, he had looked me up and down, doubled his price and asked no questions.

Dressed appropriately to my new status as groom, I had spent a profitable evening at a tavern nearest to the stables and had learned much to my advantage. I was fortunate enough to find a stable-lad employed at the yard, and he, warm with drink, was keen to impart all the gossip about the trainer.

Mr Harold Milton had a well-earned reputation as a violent bully, who put his horses before his staff. Not a week before, he had whipped a lad from the stable-yard for keeping the company of women and having the audacity to have brought one back to his lodgings for the night. Never a drop of alcohol passed the man's lips, and he thought ill of those that did. As to his past, he had been a mediocre jockey whose weight had eventually told against him and left him destitute until he had found employ as a stable-lad. He had worked his way up from the bottom and had a measure of respect in the business. My companion, however, was of the opinion that he still wore the bitterness of those years and was resentful of any who showed promise.

With this warning ringing in my ears, when I ventured to suggest that he might feel the rough edge of his master's tongue for the state of his own sobriety, he only laughed. He was celebrating, he explained. He had been thrown out of the yard that afternoon for answering back after damaging a bridle. Never had he been so pleased to leave a position, said he, and added that if Hercules had thought labouring at the Augean stables was bad, he had never toiled at Milton's establishment.

This was encouraging, for I had concerns that even with Lady Hester's letter, I could still be refused employment. According to my increasingly slurred companion, the yard was always in need of labour. I had no fear of hard work. After all, I had cleaned the floors of the Tankerville Club on my hands and knees, and felt the bite of the members' ungrateful horses. As to my 'problem', that would have to be managed with care. I imagined Mr Harold Milton would not look kindly on a stable-lad with a taste for laudanum, whatever the circumstances.

Thus it was that I left my lodgings at six o'clock the next afternoon and set my face against the wind for the training stables. I had timed my arrival for what I hoped would be a lull in the busy routine of work, and as expected, from the outside at least, there were few signs of life. Substantial red-brick walls scarred with the roots of dead ivy loomed over the traveller, and the heavy gates were firmly barred on the world. Judging from the pair of horse-heads on the gate posts, I was certain I had reached my destination. Only the occasional whinny and stamp of hoof on cobble from within told me that the place was occupied.

I reached for the chain to ring the bell. Scarcely had my hand closed on the metal links than one of the gates was heaved opened and a young fellow came tumbling out head over heels.

"And stay out!" came a booming voice. "If I catch you here again, I'll have your guts for garters. You understand me, boy?"

The owner of this voice, a brawny, weather-beaten individual in his fifties, with the walk of man more accustomed to riding than being on foot, emerged from the gate to hurl further abuse at the unfortunate lad. As he did so, another hand bearing a bag came forth, and this the man took and threw into the road. He landed the cowering lad a kick in the back for his trouble, and reiterated his threat in colourful terms.

Then his eye fell on me.

"What the devil do you want?"

Keen, bloodshot eyes surveyed me beneath bushy black eyebrows. Thick iron-grey hair sprouted at all angles from under his hat. The corners of his mouth were downturned in a permanent scowl, and his pox-scarred face was flushed with exertion from his recent outburst. Had I been a gambling man, I would have laid good money on this being the trainer, Milton.

Seeing what had happened to the fellow who was scurrying away in the direction of the town, I adopted a suitably humble attitude.

"The name's Holmes, sir," said I. "I was told to come here by Lord Roselynn, sir. He said you might find me work. He said he was sending a letter of recommendation."

The eyes narrowed. "Roselynn, eh? That old fool?" He glanced over his shoulder. "Bailey, you know anything about a letter?"

Another man appeared. Small and bird-like, he looked as though a breath of wind might carry him away at any moment. There was, however, an energetic grace to his movements that suggested he could more than hold his own. Not perhaps against his master, but against any ne'er-do-wells that came to the door.

I held my breath. But Lady Hester had proved true to her word.

"We had a letter with the Earl's crest this morning," said he. "Said he was sending down a man. Wants him to look after his horse."

"Does he now?" He addressed his question to me. "Now why should he want that?"

"He's been a good master," I replied. "Only he couldn't keep me on, and said he'd try to find me another position. I'm good with horses, sir. I was a groom in his household."

"Being good with horses is one thing, Mr Holmes. But are you any good with _racehorses_?" A twisted smile came to his lips. "Bailey, is Goliath still saddled up?"

"I believe so, Mr Milton."

"Get him here." He turned his attention back to me. "As it happens, we're short-handed at the moment, what with the Flat season well under way. There's plenty say they want the work, but won't do it. If you've a fancy to be sitting around like you did at his Lordship's stables, then you best head back to Lowestoft. You understand me?"

The gate was pushed wide to reveal Bailey holding a formidable black colt. Seventeen and a half hands high, glossy of coat and foaming at the mouth, the horse Milton had called Goliath had earned his name. Milton grabbed the reins and brought the agitated horse forward.

"You take him to the end of that field and back, and you've got a job. Well, hurry up. I'm a busy man."

I would have struggled to make it into the saddle but for the leg-up Bailey offered me. No sooner had the horse felt my weight on its back than it reared. Milton released the reins, giving the horse its head. I tried to throw my weight forward, too late. The world tumbled and span until sky, buildings and ground were a confusion of colour. The next I knew was when I hit the floor inches away from the stamping hooves.

The trainer let out a snort and headed back into the yard. I had fallen, in every sense, at the first hurdle. Or so it appeared. Bailey had caught the dangling reins and was holding them out to me.

"Goliath throws everyone the first time," said he. "It's the ones who get back on that Mr Milton wants."

As racehorses went, Goliath was an impressive and daunting example of his breed. Muscles rippled under the shining coat and the gleam in his eye showed spirit. Any sane man would have walked away. I could only claim the insanity of the last few months as my reason for trying again.

The horse spun wildly as I came to rest in the saddle. Bailey kept a firm hold on the reins, and when the horse found he could not rear, he began to buck. When he was pointing in roughly the right direction, Bailey let go of the reins.

We set off in a mad, unruly gallop. The ground sped by, nothing more than a brown and green blur. The horse had his head high, evading the bit. I was but a passenger, hanging on for dear life to a handful of black mane and tight reins.

Under such circumstances, Lady Hester had advised giving the beast his head. It seemed madness, perhaps no more so than pitting my might against that of a half -ton horse. Cautiously, I allowed the leather to slide an inch through my fingers. The horse sensed that I was conceding defeat and ceased the worst of his pulling. We reached a length that pleased us both, and some semblance of calm was restored. We were still travelling at a considerable speed, but now we both felt in control, even if mine was only an illusion. I sat forward, taking my weight from the saddle. Goliath moved rhythmically beneath me, covering the ground with his giant stride with none of the jolting I had experienced with my previous mount.

With the far hedge fast approaching, I wondered if we were going to clear it in a single bound. Goliath had covered this ground before, however, and began to lessen his speed, until we reached the end of the field at a trot. I turned him, and at a controlled, comfortable pace, we returned to where Bailey was waiting.

He stood, his arms crossed, nodding in what looked like approval as we approached.

"Not bad," said he. "A bit rough round the edges, but we'll soon straighten you out."

I jumped down from the saddle, soaked in sweat, my quivering legs almost giving way beneath me.

"What's your name again?" he asked.

"Henry Holmes."

He held out his hand. "James Bailey, Head Lad here at the Hampton Training Stables. Look lively, Holmes. Mr Milton wants to see you." He jerked his head to the far corner of the yard as he took the panting horse from me. "His office is over there. Well, get a move on. He doesn't like being kept waiting."

I grabbed my bag and hurried into the yard. A large establishment, stables surrounded a central courtyard with a pump and drinking trough in the centre. Most of the upper stable doors were open, and horses stared out, variously bored, chewing on hay or curious about the newcomer. A soft grey muzzle extended to meet my hand as I passed, and breath scented with grass warmed my palm. I passed on to the closed door of Mr Milton's office. I knocked, heard his gruff reply and let myself in.

His office smelt strongly of leather, horses and saddle soap. The interior was uncompromisingly masculine; pictures of horses and jockeys, an etching of a boxing match and several portraits of champion fighting cocks. The plain, workmanlike desk with its inkwells and papers fastidiously arranged, whitewashed walls, and a plain stone floor reinforced what the stable-lad had told me about Milton's abstemious nature. The only concession to comfort was the fireplace, unlit despite the cold.

"You wanted to see me, Mr Milton?" I said.

He did not look up from his writing. "There's work if you want it," said he. "We start at half past five, and I expect lights out at nine o'clock. Every lad gets three horses to look after. I expect you to look after them better than you look after yourself. If you ever give me cause to think differently, I'll tan your hide. No drinking, gambling or women. Well, do you want it?"

He looked up abruptly, his eyes small and red, like those of a pig.

"Yes, sir," I stammered.

He grunted. "You're too old and tall to be a jockey, so I won't be applying for a licence for you. What's your weight? You look about eight and half stone to me."

"Something like that."

"Keep it that way and you'll have a job here as long as you stay under nine stone. I'll not have my horses damaged by heavyweights. I'd like to see you lighter, but your height is against you. I've seen Fred Archer manage eight stone six, and he's five feet ten. I remember back in the day when George Fordham won his first Cambridgeshire in 1853. Just under four stone he was, and keen as a whippet. The Jockey Club won't allow that these days. The minimum weight was raised to five stone seven pounds four years ago. It was a mistake in my opinion. I've seen good horses break down under the weight of a heavy rider. I don't care how you do it and I won't ask. Just mind you keep your nose clean. Understand?"

I nodded.

"Now, tell me, what's the real reason Roselynn sent you down here?"

"He couldn't afford my wages."

Milton slammed down his pen. "You lie to me, son, and you'll regret it. A young man like you could walk into any groom's job without a good deal of trouble. Yet here you are in the wilds of Suffolk. Now, what's the problem? By the look of you, I'd be willing to bet it was a woman."

Milton had a point. As I had not another explanation to hand, I could not improve on his own suggestion.

"I thought so," said he. "I'll not ask for details. But the first woman who turns up here with a babe in arms claiming you as the father, you're out. Do you understand?"

I nodded.

"Report to Bailey, he'll show you what to do. Tell him you're to have care of Catherine the Great, Greyfriar and Goliath."

The thought of having close contact with the huge, boisterous colt on a regular basis was not encouraging.

"Goliath, sir?" I queried.

"You got a problem?" he growled. "Because there's the door if you have."

I decided that I would find a way of coping, and shook my head.

"Good," said he. "Now get out."

I returned to the yard to find Bailey in conversation with several of the other stable-lads. They gave me a cursory look and departed. Bailey was more affable.

"You took the job then?" he asked, nodding when I admitted I had. "Well, you work hard and keep out of trouble, and you won't give Mr Milton cause for complaint. He can be a hard taskmaster, but I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. We've got a good yard, and some good horses too. Which ones were you given?"

"Goliath, Greyfriar and Catherine the Great."

"Lucky you," said he sardonically. "Goliath you've met. That's his stall over there, away from the fillies. He'll need untacking and washing down. That'll be your first job. Then there's Greyfriar."

He wandered over to the open stable door with the kindly grey I had seen earlier. The contrast with Goliath could not have been greater. His coat had yet to turn to the white of older horses and still bore the dapples of his youth. His mane was iron grey, darker at the roots, and in the centre of his forehead was a swirling circle of hair, like a spinning wheel in motion.

Greyfriar greeted us with soft whinnies and pricked ears. He sought Bailey's pocket and was rewarded with half an apple, and then with juice-flecked muzzle began a cursory inspection of my coat.

"He won't give you any trouble," said Bailey, stroking the horse's long nose. "Good as gold, aren't you, Greyfriar? He's got a race on Monday at Lincoln, and as you're his lad, you'll have to go with him."

"Does he stand a chance of winning?"

Bailey shook his head. "He's there to keep Goliath company. Our Greyfriar is a rabbit, there to set the pace for the rest of the field. He's all speed at the beginning, then he gets bored and drifts to the back. Goliath needs the competition. If he's out in front on his own, he panics and doesn't concentrate." He patted the horse's neck. "He's a good boy is our Greyfriar, but you're not a winner, are you?"

"Is Catherine the Great a winner?"

Bailey did not reply immediately. Instead, he fished the other half of apple from his pocket and offered it to the horse. Greyfriar took it and chewed it with relish.

"Lord Roselynn thinks she is," said he at last. "But then he's made a career out of backing wrong horses. Don't get me wrong, Holmes. She's a good horse. The trouble is, in this game, there's always another that's better. She'd make someone a fine hunter. But she's no racehorse. Come, follow me."

He led the way from the main courtyard, to where two long wings had been thrown out beyond the principal building. Instead of individual stables, these blocks had ten open stalls within, with each horse separated by a wood partition and railings. Across each stall was a length of chain to prevent the occupant from wandering off. Catherine the Great was a dark bay, raw-boned filly with long back and bovine expression. She regarded us impassively as we approached and went back to her eating. A lad was working on her with a curry comb, making her coat shine.

"She's looking good, Danny," said Bailey approvingly to the young man. "She's a credit to you."

The boy paused in his work to acknowledge his superior. Fair-haired and whey-faced, it was no stretch to say from his rosy complexion that he was a country lad, who had lived far from town and city. I should have put his age at twelve, so slight was he in stature and build, being scarcely over four feet in height. Work and the rigours of the weight limit imposed by the trainer had caused the freshness to leave his features and leave him looking gaunt and haggard.

"Danny Palmer," Bailey explained, introducing us. "He's going to be a jockey. Having his first race at Lincoln next week. He'll be riding Greyfriar, won't you, Danny?"

The lad nodded, regarding me warily, and I was forced to reconsider my assessment of his age.

"This is Henry Holmes, Danny. He'll be looking after Cathy from now on."

Palmer's face fell. "What have I done, Mr Bailey? I've tried me best, sir, honest I have. I was late with her feed last night, but that was Martin's fault."

Bailey raised a hand. "It's nothing to do with you, Danny."

"But she's my horse!"

"She's the Earl of Roselynn's horse, and he wants Holmes here looking after her. You can take over Artemis. Her lad was given the boot today."

"Yes, I heard," said the boy without much enthusiasm. "They said he got caught stealing oats."

"He got his comeuppance, Danny. That he stole was bad enough, but then he lied about when Mr Milton confronted him. You know what Mr Milton says about that: a liar is worse than a thief. Remember that. You too, Holmes. We don't like liars here."

The pointed way he said it made me wonder if my disguise had been penetrated. In the next breath, however, he was consoling the boy and telling him to run along.

"He's young, for a jockey," I said when we were alone.

"At fifteen? If anything, he's too old. He's our best young prospect at the moment. Most of the stable-lads here are in their twenties. They don't stay long. They arrive thinking they're going to be the next champion jockey. Goliath throws them a few times and they soon change their minds. Not many can stand for Mr Milton's rules either. I mean, it's natural for a man to want a drink from time to time, and talk to a pretty girl. If Mr Milton had his way, we'd all be living like monks. Nothing but men and horses all day long, it's not healthy. Don't tell him I said that, mind."

I followed him back into the main courtyard. A slight youth with bright, inquisitive eyes paused in his sweeping to stare at us.

"Good news, Billy," called Bailey. "You aren't the new boy any more. Mr Holmes here is joining us. You can show him the ropes."

With that, he departed, talking of other duties and leaving us to make cursory assessments of each other. Short, dark and of middling height, the careless manner in which he leant on his broom suggested he tended towards idleness, although from the way he was looking at me, I sensed that he was possessed of quick wits and a keen intellect.

"New boy, eh?" said he. "What's your name?"

"Henry."

"They call you 'Harry'?"

"Only once."

He grinned. "Henry it is then." He extended a calloused hand. "Billy Williams."

"Billy as in…?"

"William, yes. I was the youngest of twelve boys. By the time I came along, my father had run out of names." The impish smile returned. "So Henry, what brings you here? You don't look like a stable-lad to me."

"I was a groom in the household of Lord Roselynn."

"Light duties were they? You didn't get soft hands like that grooming horses. Well, if it's tips you're after, you'll be sorry. It's no easy life here."

"So I've heard. Despite that, I need the work."

He grunted, appearing unconvinced. "Well, none of my business anyway. As it happens, I'm glad to see you. Being the 'new boy' comes with certain obligations."

"Such as?"

"Sweeping the yard five times a day." He duly handed me the broom. "Then there's the sleeping arrangements. 'New boy' gets to sleep in the fillies' barn."

I had expected worse. At least I would have a bed.

The smile broadened. "Who said anything about a bed?" said he. "You get to sleep on the hay in front of the doors. There's valuable horses in there. And guess who gets to stay on guard all night?"

* * *

_**Sounds like an uncomfortable night lies ahead. Get what sleep you can, Mr Holmes. You're going to need it…**_

_**Continued in Chapter Eleven!**_


	12. Chapter 11

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Eleven: Heavy Going**

I had a rude awakening the next morning.

I am not naturally an early riser, except on those occasions when necessity demands. A dawn start was something I did not relish nor encourage, and being out of the habit, I imagined that I, along with the rest of the stable yard, would be roused by the ringing of a bell or the crowing of a cock.

What I did not expect was a bucket of cold water poured over my head.

I choked and gasped, and blinked up into the unsmiling face of young Danny Palmer.

"It's half past five," said he. "Get up."

Hell hath no fury like an apprentice jockey ousted from his usual charges by a newcomer. I had borne his silent fury yesterday; evidently, I was not to be forgiven so easily. I had to wonder about his attachment to Catherine the Great. Was it simply his fondness for the horse, or something more sinister? Did he know how this unprepossessing filly was going to win on Friday?

At this hour, feeling wretched from a poor night's sleep curled up on a horse blanket and hay bales and tormented by draughts from the gaps under the door, such considerations were beyond me. I could think only of getting through the next few hours of work before respite came at lunch.

As it was, I staggered from the barn and joined the other lads to begin the morning feed. I began with Greyfriar, who welcomed me with warm nose and bright inquiring eyes. Catherine the Great was bolder, chancing her nose in the bucket before I had emptied it into her manger. Next came Goliath, and, from the gaggle of lads who had gathered around the stable door, I gathered that this was going to be a challenge.

They said nothing, but I could tell from their grins and knowing looks that something was about to happen.

Cautiously, I unbolted the door and swung it back. The colt's head lunged at me, teeth bared. I jumped back, and the horse retreated into the darkness of the stable. This was met with laughter from the onlookers.

"He'll have you," said one of them. "Goliath always likes to draw first blood from his lad. Best get in there and get it over with, Henry."

I had no intention of letting the colt take a bite out of me. But I would have to go in eventually. Even if I left the bucket by the door, I would still have to venture inside to replenish the hay. As I took a moment to consider how best we might both emerge unscathed, my eyes adjusted to the dim light and I could see the horse at the back of the stall. He was on his toes, ready for the next attack. The whites of his eyes were showing, and his neck was gleaming with sweat. The black coat steamed in the chill morning air, and his breath came in visible plumes from his nostrils, like fire from a dragon.

It occurred to me, watching him and listening to the jeers from the other lads, how uncomplicated horses are, compared to their human keepers. Love, hunger, panic – the drives that we seek to obfuscate with treachery and deceit – are worn plainly. The fault is ours for not recognising the signs. If they wish to kill, through rivalry, self-defence or fear, then they will do so. There is no attempt to hide behind paid accomplices who are paid handsomely to slip drugs into one's food and watch while a life is robbed away. Faced with a choice between Mycroft and a thousand pounds of horse-flesh, I knew which I preferred.

With this in mind, the answer to our problem was obvious. Much to the other lads' confusion, I left Goliath and went in search of a sack. They watched in puzzlement as I tipped the feed from the bucket into it. Then I opened the stable door again.

Goliath saw me, but made no attempt to lunge. He kept his eye on me as I edged around the stable, made it to the manger and into it poured the feed. He grew interested and took a few steps forward, sniffing out the offering. When he found it was to his liking, he began to eat heartily, no longer mindful of my presence. I added hay to the rack and left him to eat in peace.

The lads were shaking their heads and mumbling amongst themselves when I emerged, and from their expressions I saw that I had earned a grudging respect. Denied their morning's entertainment, they went back to their duties. In their wake remained a small, older man, who I had noticed lingering around the yard the day before. A permanent grin had etched deep lines on his bronzed face around the eyes and mouth, and the fleshiness of his jowls did little to conceal the sunken cheeks. When he smiled, as he did often, it was to reveal that his front teeth, both lower and upper were missing, leaving only the canines and one or two molars either side. A bulbous red nose with broken veins added nothing to the beauty of his features, nor did the considerable paunch he carried. Most distinctive of all was the limp, which gave him the rolling gait of a man of the sea.

"Impressive was that," he observed.

He took up position leaning on the stable door, arms folded, grinning at me, while I gave the horse his morning groom. The statement and his posture invited conversation, but at this hour and with yesterday's dosage of laudanum wearing off, I was in no mood to oblige.

"It's Henry, isn't it? You're the new boy."

The question forced me to acknowledge him with a nod. This was met with a soft snort of laughter.

"The other lads were taking bets on how many lumps Goliath would take out of you this morning. There's them that'll have lost money. You won't be popular."

"I'm used to it," I replied.

"Are you now?" said he with consideration. "You get on better with horses than people?"

"Let's say I understand them."

"I can't deny that. You handled Goliath well. How did you know?"

I paused in the grooming and smoothed down the glossy coat with my hand. The horse's flank twitched and his hoof raised a little from the ground in a small act of defiance, but we had reached an understanding.

"I can recognise terror when I see it. He had no fear of me. He threw me yesterday without a second thought. The only thing that had changed since then was what I had in my hand."

"The bucket."

I nodded. "I take it he was beaten with it at some time? About the head, I should say, for I see a small scar above his right eye."

"By the first lad who had care of him. He was always right feisty, was Goliath. Too ready to be snatching at his food. That first lad had no feel for the horses. Anyroad, one day Goliath got too eager and knocked the bucket out of his hand onto the floor. The boy took that bucket and beat the horse about the head with it. The horse near lost an eye, and him the Duke's prize colt. When Milton found out, he whipped the boy from here to Lowestoft."

"And now Goliath is shy of buckets."

The old man grunted. "The other lads used to chuck his food on the floor and run. That's no way to treat a horse like this." He stared at the colt for the longest time, lost in thought, before turning his attention back to me. "You speak right fancy for a stable lad, Henry."

"I worked at Lord Roselynn's stables before coming here. You pick up London ways if you live in the capital for any length of time."

"I wouldn't know, lad," said the old man ruefully. "I've been around horses my whole life, man and boy." As if suddenly struck by his oversight, he offered his hand. "The lads call me Old Uncle Tom, by the way."

I shook the hand. "Henry Holmes," I returned. "Would your surname be Cobley, by any chance?"

For the first time, the smile fell from his face. "How would you know that?"

It had been a long-shot, but surprisingly satisfying. With my problem under control, I was still better than anything Scotland Yard could muster, even on my bad days. I was reducing the dosage daily, and riding out the consequences with hard work, both physical and mental.

Encouraged and emboldened, I continued.

"What else should a man be named when he is known affectionately as 'Old Uncle Tom'? The reference is to the song, _Widecombe Fair_. Those who rode upon the grey mare included 'Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all'. Yet you do not hail from those parts. Yorkshire, I should say."

"Aye, when I was a lad. But how the devil –"

"The accent is worn, but there are still traces."

He was taken aback. "Who have you been talking to?"

"No one. I notice things," I said diplomatically.

"What else have you noticed?" he asked warily.

I was brushing Goliath's tail and did not look up from my work. I let the deductions flow naturally, relishing a moment that a week ago I had thought I would never know again.

"You were a jockey of some success, until injury ended your career. You took to drink, your wife left you, and you've been eking out a living ever since selling racing tips."

His jaw had been falling ever wider as I spoke, and was to continue further at my next pronouncement.

"You're also Milton's step-father."

The look that came into his eyes was akin to one beholding a creature of demonic origin. I sought to ally his fears.

"You have lost your teeth in quite a particular pattern. The front, top and bottom, knocked out from falling from a horse, I should say. In the lower jaw, I can see a small piece of root still in place. Broken then, not pulled or decayed. You have also lost your back molars. The weight restrictions placed on jockeys oblige them to eat little or to rid themselves of food they have eaten. The acids will invariably rot the teeth over a long period. You would not have put yourself through such an ordeal were it not worth it. Hence your former success."

"Aye, it's true," he gaped.

"The injury is evident from your limp. You have one leg longer than the other, a break that did not heal correctly. That is it of long-standing is evident from the wear pattern on your boots and your gait. You are troubled by pains in your hips and back where you compensate for the injury."

He nodded numbly. "I got that on the track. The horse tipped us over the railings. Snapped us leg like a carrot, both bones, it did. They never did heal right."

"Which explains your taking to drink, as evidenced by your complexion and weight distribution."

He patted his considerable stomach. "I don't have no problem with the drink."

"But your wife did. That she left you was as a consequence of your drunkenness caused by the loss of your profession. When a man loses what is dear to him, despair and worse indiscretions are apt to take its place."

He glanced at me. "You speak as though you know, lad."

Given the events of the past few months, I did. It was a place I had no desire to revisit.

"As to the rest, you supply the local touts with information about the horses at this yard. Mr Milton is not a man to tolerate such behaviour without good reason. That he has not sent you packing suggests he has sympathy with your plight. He was a jockey himself. Clearly he attempted to emulate you. The difference in surnames means you could only be his step-father."

"'Pon my word," said he, "if I hadn't heard it with us own ears, I'd never have credited it. You are a clever man, Henry, and no mistake. With insight like that, you'd make a right good trainer."

I shook my head. "I was grateful to Mr Milton for the work."

"You won't be staying long?"

"Until I can find something better."

The smile returned. "There's nowt better than working with horses, lad. You'll see." He lowered his voice. "You not be mentioning about Mr Milton being us step-son, I hope. No one is supposed to know. I'd appreciate you keeping it to yourself."

"Why does he not acknowledge you?"

The old man shrugged. "Ashamed of us, I suppose. You were right. I was a right good jockey. Then I broke my leg and no one wanted us to ride their horses any more. I won't lie. It made us bitter. The wife left and took the lad with her. He remembered old Tom though, and when I came here, he said I could hang around and pass on a few tips what he wanted the touts to know."

"I see. And what does he want them to know about Goliath?"

"Goliath is the Duke's horse. His Lordship reckons he could be a champion."

I urged him to continue.

"The Duke's got this idea of him being sent to stud. A few easy races under his belt and the horse could command a pretty price for covering mares."

"Does he win races? He has the speed."

"Aye," agreed Tom. "But not the stamina. He's four now, and he's only won a handful of races, beaten more times than he's been place.. He'd be a decent horse, if he were gelded. He's got an eye for the ladies, you see. Anyroad, that won't be happening. Gelding him would defeat the object."

"What about Catherine the Great?"

His eyes narrowed. "What about her?"

"Is she a decent horse? I only ask because she's another of my charges."

"A right decent horse for cats' meat," Tom chuckled. "I wouldn't bet on Catherine the Great to start with the letter 'C'."

We both heard the tramp of boots heading in our direction. Tom left his resting place, and began to wander away, not quickly enough, however, for the newcomer was upon him in an instant.

"You're not keeping my lads from their work, are you, old man?" said Milton.

"Just introducing myself, Mr Milton," said he, touching his cap.

"Well, be on your way. And take that filthy pipe with you. I'll have no smoking in my yard." Having sent one on his way, he turned his attention to me. "Holmes, get out here."

I obeyed without protest. Milton peered at me.

"What's that on your face?" said he.

I ran my hand over my unshaven chin, wondering what he had seen that I had not. Before I could answer, he hit me across the face. I reeled under the blow and felt my teeth rattle.

"My hand, that's what," he roared. "Next time I see you, Holmes, I want to see you shaved and looking respectable. Don't ever let me catch you turning out like a vagrant again. I want to see you up and about at five o'clock in future, in my office with a clean chin. Do you understand?"

I meekly replied that it would never happen again.

"Good, see that it doesn't." A little of the ire left him. "Now, you'll be taking Greyfriar and Catherine the Great out on exercise this morning. But not Goliath. As he's racing tomorrow, I've got his jockey coming over to take him out. See that's he's saddled and ready to go. Vigor doesn't like to be kept waiting."

He stormed away, barking orders and sending stable lads scurrying in all directions. Billy Williams sidled over, saddle and bridle in hand. He took in my bleeding lip with an expression torn between amusement and sympathy.

"You have to watch Milton's back-hander," said he. "He's pretty quick when the mood takes him."

"I'll have to remember that."

"Vigor's a bit handy too, especially when he's had a few. Don't get on his wrong side."

"Goliath's jockey?"

"The _stable_ jockey," Williams corrected me. "He rides all the Duke's horses. Thinks he's going to be a champion one day." He snorted. "Sidney Vigor – they call him _'The Hammersmith Wonder_' on account of his 'prowess' both in and out of the saddle, if you get my drift. A nasty bit of work if ever there was one. And right cocky with it. Says he's descended from Russian nobility." He let out a laugh. "You ask me, the furthest east he's ever been is Southend-on-Sea."

He turned to go.

"Why Hammersmith?" I called after him.

He shrugged. "He says that's where he was born. But then he says a lot of things. I suppose it sounds better than a brothel in London's East End. Nobility, my foot!"

I was soon to discover that Williams' scepticism was justified. Sidney Vigor swaggered into the yard at near on nine o'clock after the other horses had been exercised. A less than impressive specimen, as thin as a lathe and standing just over five feet tall, he had the unhealthy look of a man who spends too long in dubious company.

I also had doubts about his ability to perform the task set for him. He snatched the reins of the horse from me, his breath rank with alcohol, and after I gave him a leg-up, it was all he could do to stay in the saddle. By the time he returned from the gallops, his complexion had turned a shade of green and his eyes were rolling. He fell from the sweating horse, and hurried to the nearest wall, where he threw up. I saw Milton watching him, hands on hips and lips pursed into a thin line of annoyance.

"Will you be well enough to ride tomorrow?" he demanded.

Vigor smirked drunkenly, as he wiped vomit from his mouth. "I'm well enough now. Just let me have a sleep, and I'll have that lazy colt of yours over the winning line before you can say 'Derby Winner'."

With that he staggered away towards Milton's quarters, to find a bed, so I surmised. He happened to see me staring at him, and his lip curled in dislike.

"What you looking at?" he yelled at me. "Don't stand there gawping, boy. Clean my mess up. And when you've finished, you can clean my boots."

"My pleasure, sir," I said through gritted teeth.

"Damn right it is. An honour is what it is, an honour I tell you! You should be begging me to let you lick my boots clean. And yet you look at me as though I'm nothing. I'll teach you, I'll teach you what it is to be nothing!"

So saying, not looking where he was going, he stumbled into the door post and hit his head. I watched as he struggled for a time to find the door. Opening it, he fell inside.

"As I say, he's a wonder all right," said Williams, suddenly at my side again. "It's a wonder to me how he stays upright."

"Why does Milton tolerate him?"

"Because he brings home the winners. Don't ask me how he does it, but he's the best jockey we've got. Seems he's taken a dislike to you, so mind you watch out for him, Henry. He'll make your life a misery now."

* * *

_**Charming fellow! So we've had Vittoria the Circus Belle, Catherine the Great and now Vigor the Hammersmith Wonder. Will there be any other canon mentions? Oh yes…**_

_**And with that warning ringing in our ears, it's off the races in the next chapter!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Twelve!**_


	13. Chapter 12

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Twelve: Death at the Racecourse**

Misery was a railway horsebox, bumping and swaying throughout the six hours it took to reach Lincoln. A horsebox had taken us to the station at Lowestoft at half past four in the morning, and from there to Norwich to change for the Ely line. Another change involving moving one indifferent grey gelding and a mettlesome black colt from one carriage to another, and finally we were on the line for Lincoln.

If the horses travelled in some comfort, wrapped warmly with rugs and provided with fodder, then their lads fared less well. I not had expected to be travelling with them. If I had hoped for a seat, I was to find myself disappointed. Milton had made it clear he was not going to bear the expense of paying for a ticket for either Palmer or myself, and had told us to slip into the horsebox when the station master was not looking. Along with Bailey, the only other person afforded the luxury of a seat was Vigor, still nursing a sore head from the excesses of the day before, not helped by his self-administered cure of 'hair of the dog'.

Danny Palmer was still brooding on his grievances and refused to say a word to me. He was also nervous, which in part I attributed to his forthcoming debut race over one and a half miles. On several occasions I happened to notice him biting his nails or staring hard at some unseen thing in the corner. I did not envy him. It was one thing to ride a racehorse on the gallops of home, quite another to pitch oneself against a group of other hot-bloods and to believe that any semblance of control would be maintained. Injuries like those of Old Uncle Tom were not uncommon, and deaths on the race course too, of man and beast, were an acknowledged risk of the sport.

I gave up trying to engage him in conversation and closed my eyes. The further from home we travelled, the less certain I was about Palmer's involvement in race fixing. With each mile, his trepidation grew until he could sit no longer and took to pacing up and down the length of the carriage. At best, I could imagine Milton telling him to pull a horse to stop it winning, but Greyfriar was never meant to be first past the post in any case. Palmer had no experience, and unless he knew something about the methods used to make a horse win, then I was inclined to discount him. Uncle Tom seemed to be a more useful source of information in that direction. I would have to question him further.

It was my good fortune too that Milton ruled his yard with a rod of iron. The lack of available lads meant that I had my chance to observe a race first-hand. Goliath was far from being the favourite, although the way Vigor had spoken suggested there was an expectation that the horse would win. The question of how that was to be accomplished one I would have to answer.

We arrived at Lincoln a little after eleven o'clock, and from there a horsebox took us to the racecourse. Goliath was becoming more excitable by the minute, and even Greyfriar had begun to show enthusiasm. We had time for light exercise to work off the stresses of travel before preparations began for the afternoon race. As we were down to one groom with Palmer gone to change for the race, Bailey had to saddle Greyfriar, leaving Goliath to me.

Whatever my own conflicted feelings about the man, Bailey was a good with the horses. He made much of them, running his hand down their legs to check for injuries and patting their necks approvingly.

"They're looking good, Holmes," said he. "How are you finding your first race?"

"Interesting."

He raised his eyebrows. "By thunder, you're a cold fish. Most of the lads would give their back teeth for a day like this. Are you a betting man?"

"I can't afford to be."

"Well, you can go and lay a bet for me." He flipped a guinea in my direction. "Put it on Goliath to win. I've got a good feeling about this fellow today."

I did as I was told. The on-course bookmakers were offering odds of 33-1 on Goliath, while the favourite, Hobson's Choice, was down to 3-1. I took a turn about the parade ring, circling back through the unsaddling enclosure and onwards past the large building that housed the weighing room and the jockeys' changing room. The sound of a commotion came to my ears from inside, and above the thuds and cries came the pitiful voice of Danny Palmer, pleading with someone.

I pushed through the doors and found a group of half-dressed men standing by whilst a beating was being administered. I forced my way through to find Palmer curled up in a ball on the floor while Vigor was systematically kicking in him the groin and stomach.

I stepped in and pushed Vigor away. The action took him aback, but then, recognising me, surprise turned to hate.

"Stay out of this!" he roared.

"Leave him alone."

He sneered. "Or you'll do what?"

I had anticipated his reaction. When the fist came in my direction, I was able to step out of its way. Thwarted, Vigor tried again, the renewed force behind it throwing him off-balance. I allowed him one more attempt before an uppercut to his chin sent him sprawling across the floor. He crawled to one of the benches, and sprawled there, clutching his bleeding nose. Nothing was quite as pleasing as seeing the thuggish Vigor enjoy a taste of his own medicine.

He was complaining loudly, but my thoughts were not for him. I reached for Palmer and tried to uncurl him. He refused all offers of help, and remained where he was, tightly huddled against the pain. Tears were escaping his tightly-closed eyes. Spots of blood patterned the tiled floor, and I hoped that the trickle of blood I saw at the side of his mouth was from the gash in his lips rather than from internal damage.

"Danny," I urged, "you have to ride today. Try to get up."

"I can't," he sobbed. Stricken eyes stared up at me, a frightened boy forgetting that he was pretending to be a man. "I hurt."

It was the most he had ever said to me. How often is it the case that even an avowed enemy in times of crisis can be a welcome sight.

Less welcome was the sudden entrance of Milton. The other jockeys parted like the sea before Moses, leaving the trainer to command the floor.

"What the devil's going on here?" he demanded, taking in the scene with blazing eyes.

"That scum of a stable lad hit me," wailed Vigor. Someone had given him a handkerchief, which was now smeared with his blood. "I think he's broken my blasted nose."

"You did what?" said Milton, turning on me, his face red with fury. I tried to resist when he grabbed me by my collar and hauled me close enough to feel the spray of spittle when he spoke.

"He beat Danny to the floor," I replied. "The rest was self-defence."

He abruptly released me. That he accepted my answer so readily told me that he had heard it all before. His mood changed. The anger still simmered but now he was intent on bringing order to the situation. Telling Vigor to get himself cleaned up and ready for the race, he then turned his attention to Palmer.

"You fit to ride, son?" he asked with surprising sensitivity.

"No, Mr Milton."

"Vigor!" he roared. "You owe me a jockey."

Vigor wisely had already made himself scarce. I made the mistake of not doing the same.

"Well, Holmes, don't just stand there," he muttered. "Get yourself dressed. You'll be riding Greyfriar in the next race."

To say I was taken aback was an understatement. Few were the times in my life when I have been silenced, except on this occasion, when I was, quite simply, thunderstruck. Milton saw my expression, and repeated his order.

"Get out there now. Goliath is going to win that race, but he won't be doing that if Greyfriar doesn't give him a lead."

"Mr Milton, I've never ridden in a race in my life," I protested, finally finding my voice.

"There's a first time for everything. If Danny can do it, so can you. And if you don't," he said, thrusting a finger at me, "then you're both out of work!"

He reached down and snatched the blue and white silk jacket bearing the Hampton colours from Palmer's grasp. He thrust it into my hands.

"It's easy. Greyfriar knows what to do. All you have to do is sit in the saddle and steer. Now get yourself ready."

He turned to go. In one last attempt to avoid having to participate in the race, I called after him.

"I don't have a licence."

"Palmer does. We'll say you're him. No one has ever seen him race before. They'll not know any different." He caught the other jockeys looking. "Anyone have a problem with that?"

They quickly looked away again, and Milton departed. I was spared a few piteous glances, then, with the sordid melodrama at an end, they went back to their pre-race preparations.

On the face of it, what I was being asked to do was insanity. Many jockeys, both professional and amateur, died on racecourses across the country every year. Those that survived were lucky to emerge with their limbs intact. Others, of course, did not. My thoughts turned to Tom Cobley with his shambling walk, his career ended under galloping hooves. Should I find myself in a similar situation, I had no doubt it would put paid to my hopes of resurrecting my fledgling profession.

Against the risk to life and limb, I had to weigh a unique opportunity. Milton had confirmed what I had suspected, that something was going to happen in the race to ensure that Goliath would win. Observing from the stands would make it difficult to see how their plan was to be put into action; being there in the thick of the race, however, would allow me to witness their trickery close at hand.

I did not have to try hard to number all the reasons it had to be done. Greyfriar was a safe, steady mount; I should have no trouble staying with him. This early in the game, I could not risk being ejected from the training stable when my questions remained unanswered. Learning the truth behind Lestrade's run of good fortune and the guaranteed success of Catherine the Great was of paramount importance. To leave the mystery unsolved was unconscionable.

And yet, some stray strand of doubt plagued me. The last time I had forced myself to endure an unpleasant situation, it had almost cost me my life. I was not the same young man who had entered Postern Prison, confident of his abilities and ignorant of the dangers. Experience brings wisdom and apprehension. I was diminished physically, if not mentally, and I toiled under the effects of a drug which was relentless in its hold. I needed it to remain sane, and woe betide me if I felt superior and denied its demands.

In the end, the decision was an easy one. It was Pliny the Elder who observed that the depth of darkness to which a man can descend and still live is an exact measure of the height to which he can aspire to reach. I had reached those heights before; whether I could do so again, I had still to prove. _Resurgam_, as they inscribe on tombstones, _I will rise again_. If I could to this, so would I.

White breeches were found in my size, though a trifle short in the legs. Boots too, which disguised the deficiencies in trouser length, and a shirt and cap. The silk jacket completed my transformation, and I duly presented myself at the weighing room, saddle in hand. The steward called Palmer's name and, when I stepped forward, he looked me up and down with a critical gaze. With Mr Milton hovering the background, he chose wisely to say nothing. I was weighed, came in under the 8 stone 4 ounces allowed for Greyfriar and duly sent on my way with lead weights to add to the saddle to make up for the weight deficiency.

Out in the pre-Parade Ring, Milton had persuaded a lad from a rival stable to take charge of Greyfriar. His trainer would have frowned upon it, but no doubt a sovereign or two had eased the lad's conscience. As I was riding and Palmer was still curled up in the changing room, Bailey had been given charge of Goliath. A change had come over the horse since I had last seen him. His coat was steaming with sweat and his nostrils were flaring. It was all Bailey could do to stop him rearing and bucking. This was not the frightened animal cowering in his stable or the eager beast I had ridden on that first day. This Goliath seemed possessed by a surfeit of energy. He needed to run, far and fast. Vigor would live up to his name as 'The Hammersmith Wonder' if he manage to steer the unruly animal to victory.

As it was, the man in question thumped me in the back with his saddle as he pushed past, his nose red and eyes full of hate.

"You better watch yourself, Holmes," said he. "This is no place for amateurs. You wouldn't be the first to get hurt out there."

I believed him. What he intended to do about it in front of the watching Lincoln race-goers was another matter.

With Greyfriar saddled and now looking as though he was taking an interest in what was about to happen, I followed horse and trainer out to the Parade Ring. Milton gave me a leg-up and I felt the immediate change in the gelding. He wheeled, dragging the reins from my hands. I swung to the side, my balance compromised, and I heard a gasp from the watching crowd as they anticipated a fall. I managed to grab the grey mane and haul myself back into position.

"Pay attention!" barked Milton, passing me up a riding crop. "Greyfriar likes to go out fast, so let him. He'll lead the field, then fall back halfway. That's when Goliath will take over. You understand?"

Milton released the reins, and we began a jogging pace around the Parade Ring. The doubts began to nag again, bringing forth a cold sweat which made the reins slip through my fingers. Apprehension takes many forms, but it had been a long time since I had felt my heart pound quite so hard or heard the roar of blood in my ears. It was not entirely unpleasant, tinged as it was with a sense of exhilaration that hitherto only the most demanding of cases had produced. I began to see the appeal – elderly gentleman assessed us with a practised eye; boys waved flags, making Greyfriar shy and snort, and several young ladies in billowing hats smiled coyly up at me, giggling as I touched my cap in acknowledgement.

We were making something of an impression until Goliath came into the Parade Ring. He was a beast of whom the Valkyries would have approved. A murmur went round the ring. Men consulted their race cards, and exchanged views amongst themselves. Several shook their heads when they saw his high spirits, and went to place their bids on the favourite, an impressive chestnut gelding with a white face called Hobson's Choice. Vigor mounted, took his turn around the ring at a barely-controlled diagonal jog, and finally we were released out onto the track.

Greyfriar's serenity had long since deserted him. I clung on as he thundered down the track towards the starting line, eagerly pulling at the reins. He slowed as we joined the other nine runners, and we followed them round and round in a circle as we waited for the signal to ready ourselves for the race. Vigor was wrestling Goliath with every step, and several times other jockeys swore and had to dodge out of the way of the colt's flailing hooves. It was a relief to us all when the starter ordered us to draw up into a rough line, raised his arm, and, when he was suitably satisfied by our appearance, brought down his hand to commence the race.

Greyfriar bolted as though the hounds of hell were on his heels. Milton had not lied about his turn of speed. We were clear of the field from the start, flying along, the ground a mere blur. The gelding had an easy, long stride, and having far more experience than his rider, I gave him his head. He took it and there was soon a furlong or more between us and the rest of the field.

For a moment, I contemplated the prospect of winning. The roar of the crowd as we rounded the corner into the home straight was compelling. The seven furlongs we needed to cover to reach the winning line seemed an insignificant distance. Greyfriar was showing no sign of tiring, and I was encouraging him with every step. Victory was within our grasp. It was only the sound of hoofbeats behind us growing ever louder that spoiled our idyll. A presence loomed beside us, and with every stride Goliath was drawing level.

This was the point that I was supposed to withdraw and let Vigor take the glory. Except that stepping aside is not something that comes naturally to me. If I allow another man to take the credit for my successes, that is my choice. To have it forced upon me, especially with a bully like Vigor, is another matter.

With that in mind, I urged Greyfriar on. He did not disappoint. He surged forward, matching Goliath stride for stride. Vigor moved the colt across, barging and jostling us, trying to force us to back down. Neither Greyfriar nor I were prepared to be intimidated. We raced on and the winning post came ever nearer. I could hear Vigor swearing at me and the horse, as he raised his whip again and again to slash at the colt's side. Goliath was giving all that he had, to the point where blood was flowing freely down his nostrils. Greyfriar had no such problem. His natural instinct was to lead, and he took pleasure in his position.

In the end, it was I who failed him. Intent on the race, I did not see Vigor change his whip hand until it was too late. The first I knew of it was when he smacked the whip hard across my face. I was blinded, my grip faltered, and Greyfriar lost heart. The rest of the field thundered past us, and we were left to bring up the rear, along with a single straggler who was making heavy weather of every step.

I kept blinking until my vision cleared. The other horses had already pulled ahead and were tightly bunched on the rails. Greyfriar had accepted his lot and had adjusted his pace accordingly. I gave him a consoling pat on the neck and gingerly touched my face where the whip had caught me. It stung, but as far as I could tell blood had not been drawn. For that at least, I was glad. Having to explain my appearance at Mycroft's wedding with a scarred face would have been difficult.

Greyfriar and I were resigned to an ignominious defeat, and our aim was simply to complete the course. The others were battling it out for supremacy, Goliath and Hobson's Choice locked in competition at the front a furlong from home. What happened next drew gasps of horror from the crowd.

From behind, it looked as though Goliath slipped. The colt's head went down, but his legs kept moving, propelling him forward. When he did fall, he took Hobson's Choice down with him. The other six runners, hard on their heels, had nowhere to go but to plough into the two stricken leaders. Jockeys were thrown and horses cart-wheeled across the track. One was thrown into railings, impaled on the splintered wood. Another vanished beneath the sprawling bodies of its fellows, crushed behind their combined weight. The gaiety of the afternoon evaporated under the squeals of dying horses and the cries of injured men.

With carnage fast approaching, I tried dragging on Greyfriar's reins to steer him out of danger. The gelding had other ideas. With a horse rolling in front of us, legs kicking wildly, Greyfriar shortened his stride and with one bound cleared the fallen animal. Then we were out in front again, and this time Greyfriar was not to be denied. He galloped on, despite my attempts to bring him to a halt, and we flew past the winning post, clear of the only rival we had left on the field.

Sensing a rare victory, Greyfriar finally came to a staggering trot, head held high and breathing hard. He expected me to share in his triumph, but my concern was for the downed men behind us. People were on the track now, ducking under the railings to run across the grass to where men and horses lay in need of assistance. Several riderless horses galloped past us, stirrups swinging free. The favourite, the bold chestnut I had admired earlier, was hobbling about on three legs, his broken fore leg swinging obscenely like a straw in the wind. Others lay where they had fallen, never to rise again.

I dismounted, tied Greyfriar's reins to the railings and ran back to the scene of the accident. One jockey was insensible, another was surrounded by men shaking their heads and calling for a cloth to cover the dead. Several were screaming, and judging by the awkward angles of their limbs, were never to ride again. Vigor was not among them. He had been thrown over Goliath's head, clear of the tumult of falling bodies. I found him limping and being supported by two men, who were helping him to the side of the track. All around was confusion, which would work well to my purpose.

I sought and found the crumpled body of Goliath. The giant horse was still, his neck broken in the fall. I touched the warm neck, remembering how the muscles had quivered beneath my fingers when I had groomed him. I realised this was the first time I had seen him so motionless, death having found a means of containing the boundless energy that had been untameable in life.

Something had been done to this creature, I was certain of it. All I had was time for a cursory examination. I did not expect to find much, but there had to be something to explain his change in behaviour. I looked at his sides, striped from where Vigor had beaten him. I had heard tales of riders putting thorns and nails in their whips to coax a little more from a tiring steed, but, despite the obvious welts, I could find no breaks in the skin. I released the girth and checked under the saddle, expecting to find a thistle or some other sharp implement, another trick used to make a horse excitable. I found nothing, and was on the verge of giving up when I noticed a small area of matted hair on the neck near the shoulder. I was examining it when I felt a hand pull me back.

"Holmes, what are you doing here?" Milton demanded. "You won, damn you. Now, get yourself over to the Winner's Enclosure and weigh in. Leave Goliath, he's only good for the knacker's yard now."

Reluctantly, I rose.

"Is there nothing I can do?" I said.

"I doubt that, unless you can raise the dead. It's a terrible business. Three dead horses and two dead men."

I jumped as a shot rang out. I turned in time to see the handsome chestnut with the broken leg fall to the ground.

"Make that four dead horses," said Milton grimly. "Now move yourself, Holmes."

He stomped away, over to where Vigor sat, head in hands. With his attention turned to berating the jockey, I took the opportunity to spit on the white silk of my sleeve and rub it over the matted hair on the horse's neck. When I raised my hand, the material showed a red smear. My suspicion confirmed, I parted the hair, and sought and soon found what I expected: a small hole, as left by a syringe.

Someone had given Goliath an injection before the race. Whatever it was had driven him into a state of frenzy. It had likely contributed to his death.

What they had given him, I would now have to discover.

* * *

_**Yes, Mr Holmes, you do have a discovery to make. Onwards with the investigation!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Thirteen!**_


	14. Chapter 13

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Thirteen: Chomping at the Bit**

"I hear you won a race yesterday."

Tom Cobley, adopting his usual posture of leaning on the open stable door, had come to keep me company while I cleaned out Goliath's former stable. I gathered his appearance was less for my benefit than for his. The mood of the yard had been subdued since our return without the stallion, and few had the time or inclination to pass the time with the old jockey. Inside the stable, I was a captive audience. Besides which, I was in need of a diversion.

"Danny Palmer won yesterday," I corrected him.

Cobley chuckled and idly scratched the back of his neck. "If you say so, Henry. You're a better man than me, I'll be bound. There's not many would let another man take the credit for som'at like that."

"Mr Milton gave me little choice."

"Aye, I dare say not. Anyroad, it takes a good jockey to walk away from that. You've got the other lads' respect now."

If so, it was grudging. On my return the previous evening, I had not been surprised to find that in my absence, the other stable lads had rifled through my meagre possessions. In anticipation of this, I had hidden my money and the bottle of laudanum behind one of the rafters in the hay loft, far away from prying eyes, or so I thought. I had returned weary and in need of fortification to find the money in place, but the laudanum gone.

This was a set-back. I could not complain to Milton or Bailey; to do so would be to admit the nature of my problem. Nor could I positively point the finger of suspicion at any one person. The news of the carnage at Lincoln races and my subsequent victory had travelled before us and had produced contrition on the part of the thieves. My other possessions had been returned, hastily folded and thrust into the bag in no particular order.

The fact that the laudanum was not amongst them suggested several possibilities. Either the vessel had been broken or deliberately emptied in an act of malice, or was being withheld with another motive in mind. I considered whether blackmail was intended, but to what purpose? The taking of laudanum was not a crime. The worst I could expect was dismissal from the yard, which was perhaps the perpetrator's intention. Or was it nothing more than spite, borne from a desire to see me suffer the effects of withdrawal?

For certainly, I was labouring under a burden this morning. As usual, I presented all the symptoms of a man with a heavy cold, and was sweating profusely despite the chill air. My thoughts were random and inconsistent, and left to my own devices they had turned inwards and fed upon each other like rats trapped in a barrel. I was condemned to endure a quiet insanity until I could escape after lunch to Lowestoft to acquire a new supply. Then Cobley had made his appearance.

Now his rambling conversation was a beacon of normality in an addled world. If I could concentrate long enough and marshal my scattered thoughts into a semblance of good sense, I might be able to learn something to advantage regarding the death of Goliath. I would have to tread carefully, however. As avuncular as Cobley was, I was mindful of the loyalty he owed Milton through the bonds of family.

"I had a good horse," I said dismissively in answer to his appraisal of my skill as a rider.

"So did the others," Cobley grunted. "Fact is, they ended up on the floor and you didn't. That's more than luck, is that. Mind you, I see you didn't emerge unscathed."

He indicated the noticeable red wheal across my face where Vigor's whip had struck me. It was less vivid in colour than yesterday, and I had hopes it would fade entirely before my appointment at the church on Saturday, otherwise I would have some explaining to do.

"Vigor was determined to win," I said. "At any cost."

As Cobley was in loquacious mood, it did not take much to steer the conversation to my advantage.

"I dare say you've seen it all before."

The old man snorted. "That, and worse. I could tell you things that would make your hair curl."

"For instance?" I urged.

"Oh, many things, lad."

"How about preventing a horse from winning?"

I noticed a subtle change in his mood. His guard came up, and watchful look came to his eye.

"I only ask because Greyfriar could have won that race on his own merits. Why won't Milton let him win?"

The tension drained out of him and he released a long sigh. "Being good isn't enough. There's other things to consider, like breeding. Greyfriar is a gelding. They won't be getting any offspring out of him, unless there's a miracle. So what if he wins? He takes the prize money for his owner, but that's chicken-feed compared to what they could make from stud fees. That's where the real money lies, son. As long as there's horses like Goliath, it don't pay them to let Greyfriar win. Unfair it might be, but whoever said life was fair? Having the talent don't make you a winner, whether you be horse or man. That's how it is the whole world over. There's always someone better. The rest of us have to be content as also-rans."

I reflected that there was truth in the old man's words. Someone better, in my case, was an elder brother with a penchant for fratricide. My much-vaunted powers were as nothing when set against those of Mycroft. He had outwitted and out-manoeuvred me. He had left me hopelessly dependent on a noxious concoction that threatened all I held dear. Death, apparently, had been too good for me. By what grace of God I was still alive, I could not say, nor could I determine with any certainty what he had planned next. My survival depended on my staying at arm's length from his influence.

"And he was happy with his lot till you let him win," Cobley continued. "He's got a glint in his eye now. The next jockey'll have a devil of a time holding him back."

"Is that how it is done?" I questioned. "I thought pulling a horse was against the rules of the Jockey Club."

"So it is. But who's to say what goes on when you're out on the track. You see, it don't always pay to let the favourite win. You let a good horse lose a few times, then the next time he runs, the odds will be in your favour and you'll come home with a pretty penny in your pocket."

"You give the impression that happens a great deal."

"More than I'd be willing to admit to," said the old fellow with a rueful smile. "I've pulled a few horses in my time. But there's always them who won't, you know, the one with plenty of money and _ethics_. Well, they can afford to. In them cases, the trainers have a trick or two up their sleeves. Giving the horse a big meal before a race, for instance. Then there's them that'll fit the wrong shoes on the horse, making it difficult for it to run. Or they won't train them and send them out unfit. Worse thing I've ever seen was the trainer who gave his horses arsenic to slow them down. It worked all right, till one of them dropped down dead. There's way and means, son."

"What about ensuring a horse does win? That must be harder with the rules about ringers."

Cobley grinned a toothless smile. "Aye, but it can be done. The stewards look at the teeth to tell the age of the horse. Now, you give a horse soap to eat before the inspection and the stewards can't tell what they're looking at for foam."

"I have heard something similar. I knew of a horse dealer in London once who used to rub pepper onto a horse's gums to make them sprightly."

He looked at me curiously. "You mixed with an odd crowd, Henry."

"They were fond of telling tall tales. I don't say it was true."

"Aye, but it is. There's been dealers afore now who've burned a horse's fetlocks or tied hedgehog skins around its shins to make it lift its legs up higher over the jumps."

"That would not make a horse go faster."

"No. A horse has either got it in him or he hasn't. I know some trainers swear by different sorts of food to help their horses along, but no power on this earth is going to turn a slow nag into a winner." He glanced around the empty stable, now swept clean and ready for the next occupant. "A shame about Goliath though."

"What do you think caused it?" I asked.

"He slipped," said he with a shrug. "It happens sometimes. A fall on the flat is always worse because of the speed you're travelling at. What with him being out front, he didn't stand a chance when the other horses hit him."

I could have countered that argument by telling him what I had observed. Something had seized Goliath mid-stride. He was dead on his feet long before he had crumpled. The broken neck had been superfluous in his demise. I did not claim to be an expert in equine husbandry, but even I could tell when an animal's heart had ceased to function. I remembered too his odd behaviour before we went out on the track, the almost frenetic energy that had been on the verge of uncontrollable.

Despite what Cobley had told me, the evidence of my own eyes compelled me to believe that something had been given to Goliath via an injection. Whatever it was had caused a fatal seizure. And I was certain I knew who had administered the dose – Bailey.

Logically, Bailey was the only person it could be, for he had been left alone with the horses while I had been sent away to lay a bet for him. What I had planned was a search of his rooms in an effort to retrieve the drug he had used on Goliath. I would have to bide my time until the bustle and hurly-burly of the yard gave way to the quieter afternoon when Bailey would have to go to town to order supplies and fodder in preparation for his absence in the coming week at Ascot. Until then, I had to occupy myself and keep the demons at bay.

With that in mind, my next task was to groom Catherine the Great. She was restless after a day's inactivity, and on the gallops that morning had shown something approaching liveliness. Several times, a rear hoof rose in warning as I brushed her hind-quarters and tried to tease the tangles from her tail. I worked methodically, using routine to impose order on thoughts that knew none. Only when I had completed my work did I become aware that I was not alone.

One grows accustomed to the shuffling of horses and the rustle of hooves on straw. This noise was different, however. It was the sound of laboured breathing as when one is plagued by pain, and was accompanied by the occasional strangled groan. I sought its source and found myself at the stall of a dark bay filly, her head bent round, sniffing at the crouched figure of Danny Palmer.

He looked up at my call and tried to stand. I saw him wince visibly, and the way he clutched at his side told of the lingering effects of yesterday's beating.

"Do you need help with the grooming?" I inquired.

He averted his face to hide his tear-stained cheeks. "I'll manage."

"The offer stands. I have only two horses."

I turned to go, only to hear his voice behind me.

"I do need help," said Palmer. "I'm finding it… difficult."

I took the brushes from him and started to work on the filly. This was the horse called Artemis, and as I smoothed the glossy coat, I began to see similarities between this filly and my charge, Catherine the Great. The only discernible difference was that Artemis had no white markings, while Catherine the Great had a single white sock on her left foreleg.

I mentioned this to Palmer and he concurred. "They're half-sisters. Same father, different mothers. Cathy's dam was a common or garden hack, while Artemis comes from a long line of winners on her dam's side. She's a year older than Cathy and she wins every race they put her up for. She can't help herself. She ran once with a bruised sole, but you'd never have known it."

"I should have thought the stewards would have noticed her limping."

"Oh, they would have done, only Mr Milton gave her morphine before the race to dull the pain."

That would account for an injection, I thought. But it was not pain-relief that Goliath had been given. It had been something which had excited him beyond measure until his heart gave out.

"What about you?" I asked the stable-lad.

Palmer shook his head. "I'll be all right. Thanks for this, Holmes."

"Henry," I said.

"Henry, then." He paused. "I haven't thanked you for what you did yesterday. I know I haven't been exactly welcoming, but Cathy was my horse. I felt like you'd taken her from me."

I nodded in understanding. "Why did Vigor beat you?"

"I don't know. All I said to him was I wanted to be like him. He called me a fool, and said that he was going to knock some sense into me."

I reflected that it was a strange comment and even stranger reaction to an honest expression of admiration. Vigor was a bully, that much was certain, and like all cowards, had cowered before a challenge. There was something else too, some wild and unruly in his behaviour and the savage look in his eyes when I had caught him beating the boy that made me think of Goliath. I had to consider whether Vigor and the thoroughbred had more in common than merely horse and jockey. Had they been under the influence of the same drug?

Whatever it was, I needed to find it.

I finished the grooming and handed Palmer the brushes. "When is Bailey going to town?"

"He isn't," said the boy. "He had Williams place the order in his absence yesterday while we were at Lincoln. Today's the first day of Ascot, Henry. We don't have no runners till tomorrow, but Mr Bailey and Mr Milton will be heading out with the first lot this evening. Didn't they tell you?"

I had been told all I needed to know and precious little else, that the day after tomorrow I would be accompanying Catherine the Great and Greyfriar to Berkshire ready for their races on Friday. Until then, I would have to stay at the stables with the few staff left behind to care for the remaining horses and see to the duties of the yard. Given my suspicions, I would rather have been with the trainer and his head lad to keep them under observation.

It mean also that my time to search Bailey's room was running short. I had to do so before he left, taking the evidence with him. I would have to take my chances when he was occupied and hope I found what I was looking for before I was missed.

Then there was my other problem. I still needed to find another supply of laudanum.

With my mind on other things, I was slow to acknowledge what Palmer was saying. By the time I pulled myself back to the present, he was muttering something apologetic, head bowed and shame-faced.

"I shouldn't have done it, I see that now," said he.

I watched as he pulled a small bottle from his pocket, its red contents visible through his clenched fingers. He held it out to me.

"I'm sorry, Henry."

He refused to meet my eye and shuffled uncomfortably.

"You know what this is?"

He nodded. "Laudanum. I thought it would make you ill if you didn't have it. Then Mr Milton would get rid of you. That's what I thought, see. My old Pa used to give us kids a thumping when he couldn't get his. He used to take it on account of his back and his foot where he put a pick through it down the pit."

"Have you told anyone about this?"

His greasy hair shook with the slight movement of his head. "A man's personal affairs are no one's business but his own, that's what Mr Milton says. Only, I don't think he'd approve."

"No, Danny, I don't think he would."

The boy sniffed and wiped his nose lugubriously across his sleeve. "What's wrong with you?"

I stowed the bottle in my pocket. "I was ill, for a while."

"You're better now?"

"Almost."

"I'm sorry. I'm not a thief. I was angry." He finally plucked up the courage to face me. "You won't tell Mr Milton, will you?"

"How could I, Danny? I would have to tell him what you took. We would both lose our positions. How would that benefit either of us?"

"You'd be all right," said he. "But I need this job."

I took in his emaciated state and reflected that he was not thriving. "You should eat," I urged him.

"Can't. I daren't put on any more weight. Tom says if I starve myself, I'll not get any taller."

"Or much older."

He grinned. "It'll be worth it when I'm a champion jockey."

"Why is it so important to you?"

"My old Pa was a miner, as was his father and his father before him. I started down the pit when I was a nipper, me and my three brothers. Then one day there was an accident, and my brothers were killed along with thirty other men. It broke my old Pa. It was like his body was alive, but there was nothing inside. Then one day he got ill and told me to get away from the pit before it killed me too. Well, I was always good with the pit ponies, so I thought I'd try for work with horses. And because I was little and a good rider, one of the ostlers put me up for work with racehorses. Doing well here, it matters to me, Henry. I don't want to die in the dark like my brothers. Whatever the cost, this is what I want to do. Nothing will stop me."

I envied him his conviction. A while ago, not in the too distant past, I could remember fighting my corner in a similar fashion, defending my choice of profession to my disapproving brother. I had had no doubts. I had thrown myself headlong into situations that might have given a wiser man pause. I had flirted with death and imagined myself invincible and the cause unimpeachable.

Then I had failed. I had been ready to give up because accepting defeat was easier than acknowledging my limitations and facing another failure.

Easier, and yet bitter. Whatever the cost, Palmer had said. For him, it was denial of the body and the physical cost that entailed. For me, it was accepting that there would be times of error. Fear of the consequences would always make me strive to avoid that eventuality at all costs, as I strove now to remove the slur levelled at Lestrade's behaviour. His fate, if I failed, was enough to keep me focused on the task at hand, whatever other burdens I faced. It was a hard road, but I had sampled the alternative and found it devastating.

"Do you understand, Henry?" Palmer asked, peering at me earnestly.

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I do."

We parted with hostilities ended and a new-found respect. I retreated out of sight to take my drops and felt the effects immediately. By the time I returned to the yard, it was to find Bailey inspecting one of the runners for Ascot for lameness. An opportunity had presented itself. With the head lad occupied, I stole away and scurried up the stairs to his room.

The door was not locked. I soon discovered the reason. Bailey was a neat and orderly man who lived a spartan existence, which seemed to fit his controlled character. He had everything he needed for a tolerable life, but nothing more. There would be slim pickings for any burglar.

A single framed picture above the bed showed a picture of a country scene, complete with bucolic shepherd fawning over a buxom shepherdess. A solitary truck contained his clothes, clean and folded. A table and chair, and bookshelf with racing forms, breeders lists and feed catalogues took up the wall between the windows. Among them was a large Bible, black leather with worn gold lettering on the spine. It appeared incongruous amongst the paraphernalia of a racing life and I took it down from the shelf.

I turned to the first page and found an inscription, identifying the book as having belonged to Bailey's grandfather. A few more pages and I found what I was expecting. A large rectangular hole had been carved out of the middle of the book, creating a hiding place. Inside was a flask, half-filled with whisky, ten or more indiscreet French postcards showing women in various states of undress, forty pounds in cash, and correspondence from his bank, confirming his account stood at seven hundred and eighty pounds.

I knew from experience that Milton was not overgenerous with his staff. Either Bailey had a keen eye for identifying a winner and had amassed his fortune accordingly or these were earnings from another source, perhaps one that paid well for fixing races in his favour.

It was something, although I was frustrated not to find that for which I had been searching. My time had come to an end, for I could hear my name being called in the yard below. I returned the Bible to its shelf, contents intact, and hurried from the room. With my foot on the last step of the stairs, Williams rounded the corner. His features creased into a frown when he saw me, and an air of hostility took the place of his normal affability.

"What were you doing up there?" he demanded.

"I was looking for Mr Bailey," I said. "I have only two horses now. I wondered if he wanted me to help Danny."

Williams visibly relaxed. "Best Mr Bailey not hear you talking like that. If Danny can't work, then he'll have to go. As for you, you'll get another horse soon enough. These stables don't stay empty long. There's always someone wanting Mr Milton to train their horses. He produces winners, you see, Henry. Everyone wants a winner."

"By fair means or foul?"

"You mean Vigor? I heard about his caper at the racecourse. You wouldn't be the first jockey he's given a stripe across the face. Well, they do say how the Lord helps them what help themselves – but Lord help you if you get caught!" He laughed and clapped me on the back. "Here, I've been looking for you. Didn't you hear me calling? You've got a visitor."

My insides ran cold as the thought came to mind that Mycroft had found me. I was somewhat reassured when good common sense reassured me that the effort of locating me, let alone travelling into the wilds of Suffolk, was beyond Mycroft's scope. It was possible, however, that he had sent one of his cronies instead.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"Lady Hester," said Williams with a wink. "She wants to see you."

* * *

_**Oo-er! Has Lady Hester come to blow Holmes' cover? What did Bailey give Goliath (and sadly, yes, the methods used to fix races as mentioned in the story are drawn from real examples)?**_

_**Continued in Chapter Fourteen!**_


	15. Chapter 14

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Fourteen: Bolt from the Blue**

I returned to the yard to find Milton in conversation with Lady Hester. At a respectful distance stood the reliable companion, Lucas, keeping a close watch on her charge. Lady Hester's ensemble of black riding habit and veiled hat, along with the side-saddled bay mare that stamped and snorted by the water trough answered my question of how she had arrived at the isolated stable. The grey cob harnessed to the trap that had been provided for her maid was alert and fresh, indicating that they had not travelled far, presumably from nearby Lowestoft.

If I wondered at her reasons for being there, Milton was more interested in finding a way to rid himself of what he saw as an unnecessary distraction. Several of the lads had stopped work and were leaning over stable doors to stare and grin at the visitor. Given the feelings Milton had expressed about women in his yard, Lady Hester's appearance was clearly a rare treat for them.

As we approached, Billy Williams confirmed my thoughts. "Now there's a sight for sore eyes and no mistake," said he, a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth as he nudged me in the ribs. "I wouldn't mind if my governor's daughter looked like that."

"She's here about the horse," I returned.

"Worse luck for you."

By this time, we had reached the gathering. Lady Hester appraised me with a critical eye.

"Ah, Holmes, there you are," said she. "I trust he has proved satisfactory, Mr Milton."

"He does what he's told," Milton grunted.

"That is all we can ask of any man. Now, Holmes, how is Cathy?"

I glanced at Milton before answering. He gave a grudging nod.

"She fares well, my lady."

"Will she win on Friday?"

"She is fit and healthy. She stands as much chance as any in the field."

"That is a fairly non-committal response," said she, showing displeasure at my response. "But then you are no judge of horses. Mr Milton, I would see my horse."

"Of course, Lady Hester," said he.

"I would also see her run."

Milton's face fell. "We are busy, my lady."

"Holmes is not," said she, giving me a sideways glance. "Your Head Lad was telling me that one of his charges was killed at Lincoln yesterday. I saw an account of the accident in _The Times_."

"Yes, we lost a good horse."

"And good men, Mr Milton." Her tone was reproving. "Now, about my horse?"

"She's had her run for the day," he replied. "I don't want her overworked before the race."

"Surely few lengths on the gallops would not tax her unduly."

I saw from Milton's resigned and resentful expression that he had accepted that this was a battle he could not win. "Very well. Holmes, saddle up the horse. Give her a gallop on the beach. It won't be so hard on her legs."

As I turned to leave, he caught my arm. "And don't let her ladyship ride the blasted animal. If anything happens to her, Lord Roselynn will have our guts for garters."

By the time I returned with Catherine the Great, Lady Hester had remounted and was waiting impatiently by the gate. Lucas had retrieved a blanket and hamper from the trap and was busy arranging the contents so that the basket was balanced neatly on her arm. I saw the old suspicion and hostility in her eyes when she looked up at my approach, and dutifully, remembering my place, I took my place behind them.

Lady Hester rode out ahead along the road and then picked her way through the pebbles that lined the sandy path down to the beach. The wind kept up its relentless restlessness, blowing sand into our hair and eyes, and tugging at the skirts of the women. We shivered under a watery sun that brought little warmth and less colour to the sullen, turgid waters of the North Sea that dashed its waves onto the beach and withdrew, dragging stones and dying seaweed back into its depths.

Despite the chill, Lucas busied herself arranging the blanket on the ground and began to lay out the provisions from the hamper. She kept one eye on us as Lady Hester dismounted and came over to inspect her horse.

"Cathy appears to be in fine fettle," said she, running her hand over the glossy hide. "Leaner than before. More muscle in her hind-quarters." She paused, her fingers working at something in the horse's near hind leg. "I feel a small knot in the tendon here. Has she been injured?"

"Not to my knowledge. Mr Milton has been working her hard."

She turned her gaze to me, inspecting my appearance."And you, Mr Holmes. Has Mr Milton been working you hard?"

"Unfailingly."

"It does appear to have done you any harm. You look improved. The change has been beneficial."

"Work is always to be favoured over idleness."

She gave this a moment of consideration. "What happened to your face?"

My fingers drifted to the mark left by Vigor's lash. "A disagreement with a whip and the hand that held it."

"Have you found any evidence that someone means Cathy harm?"

"No. It does not mean that the danger does not exist."

"Perhaps they have been deterred by your presence." She smiled and I fancied I saw a trace of colour come to her cheeks. "Forgive me. I did not mean to embarrass you."

"You did not. I do not flatter myself that they consider me to be a threat to their plans."

"That is why they shall fail," said she assuredly. "I have faith in you."

"Your presence gave me cause to wonder."

"You thought that I was about to renege on our bargain? No, Mr Holmes, your secret is quite safe. I told Mr Milton that I had been visiting friends in the area and had promised my father I would check on Cathy. I keep my word. In truth, I was concerned."

"Had harm come to the horse, I would have sent word."

"Concerned about you, I mean."

I was suddenly aware of her proximity, of how she was looking at me, and how close to touching were the fingers where we had laid our hands on the horse's shoulder. I was also aware that Lucas had risen to her feet and was watching me as a hawk watches a rabbit. This was not something not be encouraged. Accordingly, I took a step back and put a little distance between us.

"How fares your sister?" I asked.

"She cries a good deal." Lady Hester sighed and turned to stare out over the wind-blown grasses of the dunes that lined the beach on the landward side. "Thanks to your efforts, I was able to send word to Mr Cummings. I am sorry to say that I am disappointed in him. He confirmed that it was not my father's doing. He said he had fallen out of love with my sister and did not know how best to tell her, so he left. He wished her well and hoped she would be as happy in her marriage as he hopes to be." There was a pause before she continued. "He has a fiancée. It seems he met her on the ship going over."

"That is regrettable."

"Yes, it is." Her smile was forced. "However, what cannot be changed must be borne. My sister is fortunate that a match with your brother was found. Who would have married her otherwise? A woman spurned publicly by one suitor cannot expect to find another so easily. There are too many pretty girls without the taint of rejection for any decent man to trouble himself with my poor sister. No, she knows she must marry your brother and accept her lot. The wedding will go ahead on Saturday as planned. I dare say you are planning on slipping away after the race in order to make it to the church on the morrow?"

Under normal circumstances, that is indeed what I should have done. Given that my brother had sinister designs upon my life, however, delivering myself into the lion's den was something to be avoided.

"I shall not be there," I told her.

"Won't your brother miss you?"

I fought and failed to suppress a laugh. "That I doubt. We... are not close," I added diplomatically.

"I find that hard to believe," said she. "Why, only the other evening when your brother called on us, he mentioned that he had lost contact with you."

A cold hand gripped my insides. "I am pleased about that."

"He was not. He said he wished to speak with you before the wedding."

I could imagine our conversation. The faithful Mrs Bulstrode would have told him by now of my discovery of the drug used to adulterate my food. She would have told him too that I had taken myself away for a week or two to some unknown place for the purposes of improving my health.

Mycroft would never believe that story. He would know that I was hiding from him. For the moment, he was biding his time. If he ever discovered where I was, his underlings would be sent to ferret me out and poor Sherlock would never be seen again.

I became aware that Lady Hester was studying me while she waited for a response. She was curious about our relationship, that much was certain, and I had to guard myself against revealing more than was wise.

"I am in no great haste to speak to him," I said at last. "I would appreciate your silence on my whereabouts, even when this matter is at an end."

"You have my word. It is sad that you are estranged. I could not imagine being at odds with my sister."

I doubted the meek Lady Blanche was possessed of Mycroft's manipulative nature. It made him hard to like, although I had to admit to a grudging admiration at his ability to deceive me.

"I cannot convince you to join us for the race?" she persisted. "The family will be there, your brother too, and your _friend_, George."

"Shadwell is no friend of mine."

"Nor mine. He is a frightful bore. Won't you come? I shall have no one to talk to."

"That will be difficult. As Cathy's lad, I shall have to lead her into the Parade Ring. It would help if you could keep your father occupied. It would be hard to explain why I have spent the last week masquerading as a stable hand."

She assured me that she would do her best on that account. With our business at an end, I offered to perform the duty for which I was receiving a meagre wage and ride the horse out for her inspection.

"I shall ride her," she insisted. "Help me up."

"Is that wise?"

She stared at me. "You doubt my ability? Cathy is not the first racehorse I have ridden."

Milton's warning banished any such uncertainty from my mind. I imagined her request was a frequent one, although I had to wonder whether anyone had defied Milton's orders before. If not, then I was about to be the first.

"I shall change the saddle for you," I offered, but she stopped me.

"I have ridden astride since the age of five," said she confidently. "Now, are you going to assist me into the saddle or am I going to have to ask Lucas to do it? That would be most unchivalrous of you."

I hesitated and kept a firm hold on the reins. "She is a mettlesome creature."

Lady Hester sighed. "Can you ride side-saddle, Mr Holmes?"

I confirmed that the opportunity had never presented itself.

"Then we will agree that I am the better rider. Now, if you please."

Arguing with women is futile. Nor could I not fault her logic. Under Lucas' watchful eye, I helped Lady Hester into the saddle and averted my gaze whilst she arranged skirts and petticoats into something approaching decency. Then, with a brisk word of encouragement, she was gone, showering me with sand as she urged the horse into speed.

In her absence and left alone after days of close proximity of other men and horses, I took a moment to indulge in the rare luxury of tobacco. Milton was absolute in his prohibition of smoking on his premises, for the threat of fire in the hay-filled lofts was his greatest fear. Out on the beach, away from his supervision, I drew a cigarette from my pocket, lit it and inhaled deeply before the wind attempted to whip it from my hand.

Almost immediately, I felt a hand touch my arm. I started, thinking that Milton had discovered my disobedience with the horse. Instead, I looked down in Lucas' baleful eyes. She glanced at the cigarette and I took her meaning. She took the one I offered, accepted a light, and we stood together, quietly smoking and watching Lady Hester disappear into the distance away down the beach.

Lucas' touch caught my attention again. She pointed to her mistress, placed her hand on her heart and then gestured to me. Her meaning was clear.

"I am aware that she has developed an attachment," I replied.

Lucas then reversed the action, pointing first to me and then to Lady Hester.

"You have nothing to fear from me, madam," I replied. "Once this business is at an end, I shall be gone."

This did not satisfy her. She touched her eyes and pointed at me. Then, slowly and deliberately, she drew her finger across her throat, baring her teeth as she did so. For a woman deprived of speech, her warning was eloquent in its simplicity. And, given what had happened to her husband, I did not doubt for a moment that she would not hesitate in carrying out her threat.

With that, she wandered away to enjoy her cigarette alone. By this time, Lady Hester had reached the end of the sandy stretch of beach and had turned the horse around. A few minutes later, she had returned to my side, face flushed with exhilaration and laughing with delight.

"You have worked wonders, Mr Holmes," she enthused. "She moves with the greatest of ease. There were times when I thought I must be flying."

No sooner had the words left her mouth than the sound of a shot rang out across the dunes. A bullet snapped into the ground a foot away from where we stood. The horse let out a squeal and reared in terror as another bullet embedded itself in the sand by its hooves. Lady Hester, taken by surprise, struggled to regain the reins which she had let slip through her fingers. Another bullet sent the horse into a frenzy and, rearing again, Catherine the Great almost toppled over backwards.

I caught Lady Hester as she slipped from the saddle and pulled her down onto the sand beneath me, covering her head with my arms. The horse galloped away in panicked flight along the beach and we were left, exposed and at the mercy of an unseen sniper. I caught the whine of another bullet and winced as the sand kicked up by the impact slapped my cheek. Then another and another, and each time I expected to feel the lead bury itself into my flesh.

But, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. Time seemed to hang after the last shot, and finally I chanced to look up. In the distance, I fancied I saw a dark head bobbing amongst the grasses on the far bank. Scurrying towards us, Lucas was waving one arm and pointing with the other in the direction where I thought I had seen the shooter.

I realised I was still covering Lady Hester. I looked down into her wide, frightened eyes. Beneath me, her heart was pounding and her breath was coming in short gasps.

"Are you hurt?" I demanded.

She shook her head, and then reached out to grasp my arm. I moved away before she could. I had enough to worry about without adding an indignant chaperone to my list of enemies.

Up on my feet, I hared away across the beach to where our assailant had concealed himself. By the time I reached the spot, he was long gone. I scanned the horizon. Beyond, the road to Lowestoft was deserted. The hedge was threadbare from the unceasing pounding of the wind and offered scant protection for man or beast. That he had vanished so quickly meant that he could only have gone to the stables.

I already had a suspect in mind. To confirm my theory, I examined the place where he had lain on the sandy bank. He had had a wide view of the beach and we should have been an easy target. From this, I concluded that his intention had not been to kill or injure Catherine the Great. The first shots were meant to drive the horse away and deprive us of any cover, or rather to deprive _me_ of any cover. If his target had been Lady Hester, he could have shot her when she was seated on the horse.

The enemy was mine. I did not need to measure the small footprints to know that it had been Vigor who had pulled the trigger. If he had meant to scare me off, then he had failed. He had, however, confirmed my suspicion that Milton's racing stable was rotten to the core.

* * *

_**Dodging bullets, dodging Lucas, dodging Mycroft – Mr Holmes is going to have an interesting time at Ascot. Don your best clothes, find your biggest hat – we're off to the races!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Fifteen!**_


	16. Chapter 15

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Fifteen: Old Friends, New Enemies**

I spent the next day in fitful idleness.

If it is true that the Devil makes work for idle hands, then mine were chaffing with impatience. I had much to think about and much to do. Due to the events of the previous day, however, I had been left behind while most of the yard had gone to Ascot, stranded as it were in Suffolk, as punishment for carelessness in allowing someone to take a shot at me.

On our return from the beach, Milton had taken one look at us and rounded on me in fury, assuming that I had disobeyed him and the lady had taken a fall. Given our appearance, it was the natural conclusion. Catherine the Great was caked with mud and sea foam, both Lady Hester and I were wet through and streaked with sand, and Lucas, as pale as a ghost, was fluttering around her mistress with all the concern of a broody mother hen.

But for the ladies, Milton would have boxed my ears. In their presence, he had done me the courtesy of hearing me out. I had studied him closely while I told the tale, expecting his features to betray his part in the attempted assassination. The look of shock that had taken shape on his face convinced me that he had had no knowledge of the attempt on my life.

On the contrary, he thought the shooter had been aiming for Catherine the Great. I left him to wallow in ignorance. For the time being, it was not in my interests to disabuse him of his conviction.

Certainly the focus of his concern had been the horse. Ignoring our dripping clothes and the shivering lady at my side, he had snatched the reins from me and had started to walk the filly up and down, trying to assess the extent of any injuries. Only when he was satisfied had he turned his attention to us, and barked orders that the ladies were to be taken to his office for tea and blankets, while a lad was sent to order a carriage from town to convey them home in safety.

When I had suggested that a search be made for the gun man, he had turned on me so violently that I had thought he was about to strike me. Instead he had called me 'a fool' or words to that effect, and had insisted that the man, whoever he was, would have been long gone. If I had not seen him, then what chance would they have of finding him now, he argued? Besides, if the man was armed, he had said, did I want to go chasing after him and get my head blown off?

I had been tempted to say that I did not have far to look, but bit my lip and took his abuse in silence. The would-be assassin, Vigor, had appeared at the Tack Room door, and was watching the scene with amusement. When Milton had finally relented and told me to clean myself up, I had made my way over to the grinning jockey.

"And where you when the shots were fired?" I had demanded of him.

He had been filling a cigarette. He took his time dampening the edge of the paper with his tongue, never taking his eyes from mine, before pressing it flat and placing it in his pocket.

"I don't answer to you, _stable-scum_," he had crowed.

I had grabbed him by the lapels and threw him backwards into the room. He had yelped as a saddle tree hit him in the small of the back.

"I said, where were you?"

"He was in bed, where he's been all morning, nursing a sore head as usual," a voice had come from the door. I had turned to find Bailey standing there. "What's going on in here?"

Vigor had taken the opportunity to scamper away. "He's mad!" he had whimpered, cowering behind the Head Lad. "He thinks I shot at him on the beach."

"Did you?" Bailey had asked him, almost reasonably.

Vigor had looked outraged at the audacity of the question. Swearing at Bailey and reserving a look of hatred for me, he had stormed out of the yard and back up to his room.

Left alone, Bailey had leant against the door jamb, effectively blocking my escape. "Why d'you think it was Vigor?"

"He has cause to resent me after the incident at Lincoln racecourse."

Bailey chuckled this. "Resent you, yes. Kill you, I doubt it. Vigor's got some funny ways, but he doesn't have the guts to kill a man. Anyway, Holmes, you're barking up the wrong tree. It's the horse they were after. The competition must be getting worried."

"I'll sleep outside her stall tonight in case they try again."

"No, Mr Milton thinks she'll be safer with us at Ascot. She'll come with us when we leave later. Best you gather her tack and prepare her for the journey. Williams will look after her."

So it was that I was left to kick my heels in the near empty yard, with a handful of horses and their lads for company. Lady Hester had been none the worse for the experience and, before she had left, had said she would see me on Friday. I caught Lucas looking at me as she said it, and for once the flint had left her eyes, as if by practical demonstration I had proved my worth. If those were her standards, future suitors for Lady Hester's hand would have to go through hell and high-water to ever meet Lucas' approval.

With but one horse in my care, my spare time was plentiful. I returned to the beach, confident that I would not encounter deranged jockeys with guns, since Vigor had left with Milton. The tide had washed clean the shoreline and it took me some time to find what I sought.

As bullets went, it was not what I had been expecting. It was soft-nosed, of the kind used in revolvers. Yet the distance meant the weapon used must have been a rifle, not a pistol.

Given the impossibility of a revolver, I had to consider the alternative, if improbable, possibility that the weapon had been a rifle adapted to shoot revolver bullets. If so, then it must have been a singular creation, the like of which I had never seen before. If such a weapon did exist, it would be instructive to examine it – if I did not find myself at the wrong end of it first.

With little else on hand to occupy my time, I found my thoughts wandering to my other problem. So far, I had been successful in reducing the dose of laudanum to fifty drops. Continuing to do so relied on my being able to distract myself from its persistent, gnawing demands, so I swept the yard, cleaned saddles and took a walk along the coast, only returning when I was exhausted in mind and body. When we finally left for Ascot at dawn on Thursday morning, it was a blessed relief to be busy again.

As before, I had charge of Greyfriar. He had been entered as the running mate for Artemis in a handicap race for four-year-olds on Friday, and despite his recent run at Lincoln, seemed fresh and ready for the challenge. Not much was expected of him, although after his last victory, his odds had shortened considerably. Danny was riding him, and I did not give much for his chances at pulling horse back now he had tasted victory.

We made it to Ascot in time for the afternoon's races. Thursday was Ladies' Day and the court milliners had been busy, for the Royal Enclosure was a sea of satin and silk and brightly-trimmed hats. This was also the day for the running of the premier race, the Gold Cup, and as usual it had attracted a crowd that had packed the racecourse to capacity.

Bookmakers were having a busy day, and I chanced half a crown on the favourite, Isonomy, to win. Squashed up against the railings at the front of a howling, cheering throng, I had a clear view as the small colt battled ahead of the field and pulled away from his nearest rival, Insulaire, to win the race by two lengths at a canter.

I have often thought of hindsight as unprofitable waste of one's time. Looking back now, however, from the distance of many years, it is strange to reflect on the changing fortunes of both man and horse on that triumphant day.

No one could have predicted that the steaming bay thoroughbred that was led into the Winner's Enclosure would have gone on to repeat his victory the following year. Equally, had I told any of the swaggering gentleman of the cases that lay in my future, I dare say they would have laughed in my face. By the time my path would cross with that of Isonomy's prodigy years later, we had both gone onto to greater things. But on that day, that prospect, especially for me, had seemed nothing more than a pipe-dream.

After the race, I took myself back to the relative safety of the stables and remained there for the rest of the day. I thought I had glimpsed Shadwell, and although I was not expecting Roselynn's party until the following day, where there was one, there were bound to be others who might recognise my face.

With the placing of several of the yard's horses, Milton's mood had improved considerably. He still scowled at his beleaguered employees, but he kept his hands to himself and orders were not accompanied with a surprise blow to the back of the head. Before I retired for the night, I looked in on Catherine the Great. With Williams in charge of her care for the duration of the race, I could not overstep the mark by performing those duties which had been my responsibility at the yard. I had to content myself with stroking the soft nose and offering her a piece of my apple, which she greedily snatched from my hand.

She seemed well enough, sleepy almost, as if the atmosphere of the racecourse was of extreme indifference to her. The incident at the beach had left no lasting effects and I was certain that it was unlikely to affect her performance. I did not expect her to win, but I would be keeping a close watch to see if others attempted to ensure that she did.

My plan did not work out entirely as I hoped. I was late rising for another dawn start and by the time I did awake, the other lads were long gone. Palmer, who under normal circumstances would have woken me, had spent the night outside Artemis' stall. He had told me it was his duty, although I suspected that, with a race looming, nerves had got the better of him. I had missed breakfast, much to the other lads' amusement, who took great delight in presenting me with a bowl of horse oats and a bucket of water.

By the time we finished attending to the duties of the day, the racecourse started to come alive. Racegoers in their Sunday best streamed from trains in their hundreds. No such primitive conditions for the aristocracy, who arrived in carriages and broughams, with their sticks to keep the racing public at bay and their money ready at hand. Amongst their number, I saw Lord Roselynn and Lady Hester descending from a carriage and kept my distance. Mycroft would have made his own arrangements and, with his arrival imminent, I retreated out of harm's way.

Catherine the Great had initially seemed as uninterested as ever. Her lacklustre performance at the morning gallop would have given no one any confidence about her chance in the forthcoming race, for she had trailed home behind the others and had dropped to a walk as soon as her lad hauled on the reins. I was not entirely deceived by this display; with touts and punters looking on, it was not in Milton's interest to allow the horse to show its potential. So it was that Catherine the Great started the day with odds of 100-1.

For a long-shot with little promise, the interest that was to be shown in her as the day progressed was surprising to all but me. By the time of the third race, her odds had tumbled to 33-1.

Someone had relayed this information to the horse, for when I went again to check on her, she was much changed. Alert now after a thorough grooming, she was hammering on the stable door with her hoof and whinnying loudly when she saw other horses being led away. Whether due to the excitement of the race or an artificial influence, I did not have the opportunity to discover, for I saw Lady Hester approaching, alone and red around the eyes. When she saw me, she started crying anew.

"He sold her," she wept, clinging to the horse's muzzle. "My father sold her to Cousin George for 500 guineas. How could he? Cathy is mine. Father said he would never sell her."

Such a sum to the impecunious earl would have been tempting. With her race history, it was ten times the horse's worth. If she won the Albert Stakes, however, the owner would be able to claim a purse of 1,000 sovereigns. It was a good return on the investment – if one knew that the horse was sure to win. I had not considered Shadwell as being involved in this conspiracy. His purchase of the horse proved otherwise. Equally, it proved that Lord Roselynn knew nothing about it or he would never have sold the horse before the race.

Lady Hester, meanwhile, was inconsolable. "He will kill her," she said. "George cares nothing for horses. He will have Milton race her over and over until her heart breaks. She is a delicate creature, Mr Holmes, you must see that. What can I do?"

I had to tell her that there was nothing to be done.

I realised too that Lady Hester was probably accurate in her prediction, although the breakdown would not take place under Shadwell's ownership. He preferred easy pleasure and immediate gratification. If I read him correctly, he would sell the horse after the race and pocket both the difference and the winnings. When Catherine the Great failed to win in the future, she would be sold on again and again before her only worth was as a carcase. Her one victory might count for something in her use as a brood mare, but I did not rate her chances highly.

As Lady Hester had said of her sister, there were too many other rivals for breeders to choose from rather than concern themselves with a one-time winner of a race that may have owed its victory to chance rather than skill.

For racehorses, like consulting detectives, are only as good as their most recent success.

I did not mention this to Lady Hester. She was deeply affected and attracting the attention of the other stable workers with her tears. I offered her my handkerchief and changed the subject.

"Where is Lucas today?"

Her mood changed abruptly, and she became evasive. "At home with my sister. Blanche is unwell."

"She does not have her own lady's maid?"

"Normally she does. However, her maid was called away early this morning. She received a telegram from her mother informing her that her father was on his deathbed."

"Is your father aware you are here, unsupervised?"

She dabbed at her nose. "He does not care. Nor does your brother."

"Mycroft is here?"

"And in the blackest of moods. He is a scowling, miserable fellow. It serves him right that–" She stopped what she was saying abruptly. Her eyes betrayed a guilty secret. "Mr Holmes, I have a confession to make. I fear I have not been entirely honest with you."

"In relation to Mr Arnold Cummings?"

Her mouth opened in surprise. "How did you know?"

"I could not believe a man could fall so easily out of love with such a delightful creature as your sister. If I may venture my opinion, Lady Hester, his response confirmed that your father had meddled. Furthermore, he told you that his affection for Lady Blanche was unchanged. Correct me if I am wrong, but there will be no wedding tomorrow."

She held my gaze for the longest time, then began to smile. "You are a good detective."

"I aim to be."

"Well, then, I cannot deny what you already know. It was as you said. My father had persuaded Mr Cummings that my sister was not genuine in her feelings for him. He told him that she was going through with the marriage because she felt it was her duty, but that he, as her parent, could not in all good conscience stand by and see his daughter suffer in a loveless match. I understand now why Mr Cummings left. He is a true gentleman."

"Yet he did not communicate the reason to your sister."

"Ah, but he did. He said he wrote Blanche a letter explaining his reasons. It never reached her because he placed it our father's safe-keeping. When I told Mr Cummings of the deception, and how my sister's affections had not changed and the awful dilemma she now faced, he was all for boarding the first steamer to England and confronting my father. I, however, suggested another solution."

She was pleased with herself, as well she might. She seemed oblivious to the scandal that would erupt when word got out or the damage done to her own chances of wedlock.

"My sister is on her way to Southampton as we speak. Lucas is with her. We could not trust her own maid, and so sent her false news about her father to make sure she was out of the way. They will take the steamer to New York, where Mr Cummings will be waiting. There, they shall be married. As soon as possible, I shall be joining them."

"You would leave your father's house?"

"Without a second thought," said she without hesitation. "He has no regard for me. Having sold Cathy to Cousin George, he now proposes to sell me to him as well. He says he would be a good match and it would stop our lands being split up. I would rather die than marry George. Unless another suitor wishes to make me an offer of marriage in the near future," said she, smiling hopefully at me, "I shall go to America."

"Then our loss shall be their gain," I said tactfully. "May I ask why have you told me now? I could go to your father and inform him of your sister's departure."

"No, Mr Holmes, I believe you will not do that. Despite our bargain, Lucas said she did not trust you before. She said men could not be trusted to betray their own kin. That is why I lied to you about Mr Cummings."

"She was wise, although in my case the charge is unfounded."

"Her opinion changed after your actions on the beach. She said you were a decent man. That is why I trust you now. Besides," she added playfully, "I have kept your secret, and you shall keep mine, otherwise I shall tell your brother where to find you."

"That sounds like blackmail, my lady."

She giggled in coquettish manner. "Yes, I think it is. It's rather fun, isn't it? Well, Mr Holmes, will you betray us?"

"No. In any case, your father will discover the nest is empty on his return home. It may be wise to stay with friends tonight."

She nodded. "He will be angry, but by then it will be too late. As for your brother, there will be a letter waiting for him from my sister, explaining her reasons. She is not so heartless as to disappear without explanation. That would be unforgiveable."

"Such consideration is wasted on Mycroft," I told her. "He will be overjoyed to have escaped the bonds of matrimony."

"Then why did he agree to it?" she asked, aghast.

It was the question which had been foremost in mind when he had told me. His explanation about the Prime Minister preferring the men who advised him to be married was unconvincing. I was certain there had been more to the story than Mycroft had been prepared to tell me.

I wondered if it changed things between us. Or would Mycroft suspect I had played some part in the deception. If so, it was more important than ever to avoid him. I was learning to be wary of my elder sibling.

"I wish I knew," I replied to Lady Hester. And I meant it.

* * *

_**Good news for Lady Blanche, bad news for Mycroft – or not? Will big brother suspect and if he does, what will he do to Sherlock?**_

_**And yes, Isonomy really did win the Gold Cup at Ascot on Thursday, 12**__**th**__** June 1879. Don't you just love it when a storyline comes together?**_

_**Continued in Chapter Sixteen!**_


	17. Chapter 16

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Sixteen: Horse of a Different Colour**

After Lady Hester departed, I had to hurry to get Greyfriar saddled up before the next race. As I worked with the brushes, I caught the hushed voices of Milton and Vigor from the stable next door. They were arguing about something, and I pressed my ear to the wall to hear what they were saying.

"I need it," Vigor was pleading. "Just a little more."

"You've had enough," Milton snapped. "Get a hold of yourself, man. You're sweating like a mare in heat."

"Mr Milton, please, half a dose would be enough. My hands are shaking. I can't ride like this."

The wall shook as the jockey's weight was thrown up against it. "Then you're no use to me, Vigor," I heard Milton say. "Look at yourself. You're nothing but a liability. Taking pot-shots at that new stable lad – what were you thinking?"

"I don't know. I was confused. He hit me."

"Pathetic!" came the growled reply. "You used to be a good jockey."

"So I was until you started giving me that accursed medicine of yours. Now I can't manage without it. Please, Mr Milton, I'm begging you. Just to get me through."

I gathered the trainer finally acquiesced, for the voices fell silent and, a moment later, I heard the stable door slam. Whatever the 'medicine' was that Vigor had mentioned, its influence explained his erratic behaviour and why Milton had been willing to tolerate the worst of his excesses. I wondered too if it was the same concoction that had been given to Goliath, which had caused his untimely death. If so, then I now knew it had travelled here with them to Ascot. I also knew when it was likely to be used next, in turning the unprepossessing Catherine the Great into a winner.

Before then, I still had to deliver Greyfriar to the Parade Ring. He was on his toes and full of energy, so much so that I had trouble holding him back as we circled with the other horses. The same could not be said of Artemis.

With Danny Palmer riding, Billy Williams had been given the job of leading Artemis out. The filly had the same world-weary gait as her half-sister and only the mildest of interest in what was going on around her. She came alive when a frisky colt broke free of his lad and made a nuisance of himself with the fillies, but once the commotion died down, she returned to her languid disposition of before.

"What's wrong with Artemis?" I asked Palmer when I gave him a leg up onto Greyfriar.

"Nothing," he muttered. "She's always like this before a race."

It was the way he said it, coupled with his tone of voice, that made me disbelieve him.

"Danny, what have they done to her?"

He looked away.

"Tell me," I persisted.

"Why does it matter to you, Henry?" he retorted. "It's nothing. She hasn't settled, that's all. Why are you always asking questions? You should stay out of things that don't concern you. You won't get hurt that way."

I saw I would get nothing from him. His desperate need to become a jockey had set the seal on his silence. Whatever the cause, Artemis would not be winning today.

"Be careful out there," I cautioned him. "What instructions did Milton give you?"

"He said to let Greyfriar have his head. He wants him to give Artemis a good lead."

With that, I let them go and retreated to watch the race unfold from the stands. Both horses made a strong start when the tape went up, but then halfway round the course, Artemis began to tire and steadily fell further behind the field of runners. Greyfriar put up a good battle and stayed on to come in a respectable third, while the filly drifted in second from last. Around me, racegoers grumbled and threw away betting slips. The only person who was not surprised by the result was me.

Greyfriar returned exhausted yet triumphant. As I led him back to his stall, I saw Bailey emerge from Catherine the Great's stable, casting about furtively as he did so. One hand was thrust into his pocket, where I could discern the tubular outline of a syringe and a bulge which could have been a bottle. I quickly tied Greyfriar to his door, grabbed a spare saddle and hurried after Bailey.

There is an art to picking a pocket. There are those who tell you that dipping a hand into a purse when the owner's back is turned is by far the easier method. I have to disagree. Distraction may prove far more effective. Contact is made, such as a collision made to look accidental, and both parties go on their way, the one the richer with the other in ignorance of his loss.

I did something of the kind now, apologising for my clumsiness on account of my haste in bumping into Bailey as I reached into his pocket and claimed my prize. Only when I led Greyfriar into his stable away from prying eyes did I take the opportunity see what I had taken.

It was a small vial, stoppered with cork, and containing liquid that looked like watered-down milk. I held it up to the light for inspection and then opened it but could detect no discernable smell. Morphine seemed a possibility, especially as Palmer had mentioned Milton giving it to Artemis on another occasion. This liquid, however, did not have the brown colouration one would expect of the drug.

Perplexed, I returned it to my pocket. Further analysis would have to wait until I had the proper equipment at hand.

For now, I could only watch as an excitable Catherine the Great was led, bucking and tossing her head, from her stall out to the Parade Ring. Her coat was already soaked in sweat and foam was dripping from her mouth where she was champing at the bit. I was about to follow when something by the door of her stable caught my eye.

It was a single splash of brown paint, as might be caused by a drip from a brush. Nothing too unusual in that, except the stables were painted green and white. I bent down to examine it. It was no more than a day old, for the outline was crisp and not chipped, as one would expect from the passage of many feet and hooves. It had a thinner consistency than paint and had a translucency about it that made me think of gravy browning. This I discounted, and thought instead of substances which were similar. I concluded that what I was looking at was hair dye.

I had observed that several of the owners coloured their hair and a few of the more flamboyant trainers as well. They did not walk about with it dripping from their person, however, which meant the dye had been brought fresh into the stable. For what purpose? Perhaps to dye the hair not of a person, but of a horse.

I thought back to the half-sisters, Catherine the Great and Artemis, one insignificant, one a success. Catherine the Great with her one white sock on her near foreleg, Artemis without a white hair on her body.

I had arrived at the obvious conclusion. I had only to test the theory.

I raced to Artemis' stable. The filly was eating and did not bother to look up when I entered. I ran my hand down her left leg. Near the hoof, the hair had a different texture, somewhat coarse. Remembering Lady Hester's comment about the knot in Catherine the Great's tendon, I felt along the thin hind leg. And there it was, a tiny imperfection.

No wonder Artemis had lost her race, for Catherine the Great had run in her place. Artemis, an older horse with more experience and injected with a stimulant, would now stand in her for her lacklustre sibling. The dye had been applied last night, brown to hide Catherine the Great's white sock and bleach and chalk to Artemis' brown leg. The two fillies had then been swapped during morning exercise. It explained Catherine the Great's change in mood over the course of the day, and Artemis' poor showing in the handicap race.

I had my answer how Lestrade's informant had been certain the horse would triumph at Ascot. I now had to find a way to stop it.

I could not confront Milton alone. I decided the matter was best placed in the hands of the Stewards before the race took place. If an allegation that a ringer was about to run was made to them, they had the authority to step in and inspect the animal for themselves. When that took place, I would try to make myself scarce. Having laid the evidence before them, I did not need to be there. Lady Hester would be able to identify her own animal and Milton would not be able to deny the charge of race-fixing.

It did not answer the question of the substance they had given the horse. That would have to wait for another day. Once I had analysed it, depending on what I discovered, I would have to decide to whom my findings should be sent. For the time being, I had to find a place to conceal it. Once the storm broke, if my attendance was required, I could well be searched. Leaving it with Lady Hester seemed my best option, and I would have to find her after I had informed the Stewards of the deception.

I put my plan into action without delay. Finding a Steward proved difficult in the crowds and I had to fight my way through the idling masses. Then it was, on my way to the Weighing Room, that I collided with a thin, rat-faced fellow of middling height wearing a brown checked suit. Once we had extracted ourselves and the shock of the impact passed, recognition came to his eyes. If I had not been expecting him, then Inspector Lestrade was certainly not surprised to see me.

"Well, well, Mr Holmes, I thought I might see you here, although," said he, looking in distaste at the stains on my trousers and manure caked to my boots, "if you don't mind me saying, you're looking a little worse for wear. Things got so bad you're having to do an honest day's work for a living?"

"Something like that," I replied. "Inspector, forgive me. I must go."

"Off to put your bet on our Russian friend, are you?" said he with a wink. "I was here early. Managed to get odds of 100-1."

With everything else that was happening, I had not anticipated his being there. I remembered now our conversation when he had told me the rules of the wager, that the bet had to be laid on race day and on course if possible. Wrongly, I had assumed he had his own bookmaker. I had not expected him to take his own advice.

Now he was at the racecourse, he could prove to be an ally. It was time to confide in him.

"The race is fixed," I told him. "They are running a ringer. And here, take this," I said, pressing the vial into his hand. "Keep it safe. I'll be back for it another time."

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, making the liquid flow back and forth as he tipped the vial.

"Something they give to the horses to increase their stamina."

"Mr Holmes, are you sure about this?" he said doubtfully. "We've been through this before. It's impossible to fix a race these days, even with these patent potions of yours."

"If I'm wrong, then it doesn't matter. But consider if I'm right. You've laid a bet on a fixed race on the word of a criminal and a circus performer. How will that go down with your superiors?"

Lestrade blanched. "Good heavens, Mr Holmes."

"Stay near the Parade Ring, Lestrade. The Stewards may have need of a member of the police department."

I left him, standing stunned into silence, and continued pressing my way through the thong. Taking a wrong turn, I found myself being forced towards the race track. Standing on the turf by the winning line, a gentleman in morning dress with the air of an official was stamping his foot on the grass. At his side stood another man waiting patiently with pencil in one hand and an open journal in the other. I approached and called out to them.

"Wait," said he, holding up his hand to me. "Best change the designation to Soft, Samuel. What with that overnight rain and all the toing and froing across here, there's more give in the ground than earlier." He glanced over at me. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"Are you a Steward?"

"No, I'm Mr Temple, Clerk of the Course."

"Perhaps you can help me. I need to report the running of a 'ringer'."

He sighed and shook his head. "If I had a sovereign for every time I've heard that, I'd be richer than Her Majesty. You shouldn't bet if you can't afford to lose money, young man."

"Not in a previous race. In the next race, the Albert Stakes."

"Oh, yes?" he said, his tone of indifference making it clear that he disbelieved me. "Well, you'd better find a Steward then. Mr Bowles is the man you want. Try the Weighing Room. He's usually in there before a race. Samuel, best check that railing over there. We don't want some fool member of the public falling in front of the runners and breaking his neck."

He had turned his back on me, but I had what I needed. I pushed my way through the racegoers, skirted the Stands and rounded the corner to the Weighing Room. I was within reach of my destination when a hand grabbed my arm and restrained me. I turned in anger to confront a tall gentleman in morning dress and grey trousers, dark of hair and possessed of a vice-like grip, only to find myself looking at the familiar features of Jocelyn Miles Holmes.

* * *

_**Well, well, fancy meeting Cousin Miles at Ascot. Everyone seems to be at the races today! But is it a coincidence? Or is something else afoot?**_

_**Continued in Chapter Seventeen!**_


	18. Chapter 17

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Seventeen: Spurred into Action**

Jocelyn Miles Holmes, or Cousin Miles to the rest of the family, stared back at me with something approaching mild surprise, rapidly transforming to disapproval. It is trite to say that he was the last person I expected to see. As he was, I cannot deny the charge. In my defence, however, these unsavoury conditions forcing him to rub shoulders with his fellow man were not what I would have called his natural environment. It suggested there was something here worth his interest. My thoughts immediately turned the trophies and plates ready to be awarded to the victors of the day's races, and wondered how safe they were.

Whatever Miles' plans for them, I would have to trust to the vigilance of the Jockey Club. I had a race to stop. But Miles seemed inclined to linger.

"Sherlock, my dear boy," said he, affably enough. "Why, it is you! I thought it was, although I hoped I was mistaken." He took in my appearance with a critical eye and his nose wrinkled in disgust. "But whatever has happened? Whatever are you wearing, and, dear Lord, what is that smell? You reek of the stables. It pains me to see that all my hard work was for naught."

"I shall explain later, Miles," I replied. "Let me go."

I tried to shrug him off, but the grip he maintained on my arm only grew tighter.

"Why?" he asked innocently, although I could tell from the gleam in his eye that he knew full well the reason.

"If you must know, the next race is fixed. I have to inform the racecourse stewards."

Miles shook his head. "And spoil the day for all these good souls with their cheap day returns and tawdry finery? Really, Sherlock, you sound like brother Endymion, forever fighting against the pleasures of the honest man. Let them have their sport."

"You do not understand. There is more at stake here than a few disappointed race-goers."

"I agree. And I do understand, Sherlock, more than you will ever know. Come with me."

He attempted to pull me to one side. I resisted. I stared deep into those scheming grey eyes of his and saw his amusement at the prospect of a challenge. Miles in those days was no weakling, and more than a match for the half-starved, laudanum-weakened wretch he held in his grasp. We stood with the crowd ebbing and flowing around us for what seemed like the longest time, two opposing forces, locked in a battle of wills.

And then something changed. The smile that had twitched the corners of his mouth faded. His humour and determination was replaced by something approaching sadness. His grip seemed to falter, and in that instance, confused by the transformation in him, I faltered and he won.

He dragged me away from the crowd, his face a cold mask of anger, brooking none of the feeble opposition that I felt compelled to offer. We turned a corner and onwards to a doorway. In one fluid movement, he threw the door open and hurled me inside. The violence of his action made me stumble and I sprawled onto the wet tiled floor, sliding across it until my head came up against a ceramic bowl. I dare say there were worse places to have a family reunion than in the gentlemen's conveniences of Ascot Racecourse, replete with their cloying smells of carbolic and urine, but not many.

I was temporarily off my guard, long enough for Miles to ensure that I would not rising in a hurry. I watched as he twisted the top of the cane he held and slowly withdrew a polished blade from the stick. He held it inches from my face, close enough for me to see my own blurred reflection.

"I cannot let you interfere," said he smoothly.

I pushed the blade aside. Miles promptly brought it back to position and drew forward. The tip danced before my eyes, forcing me to retreat over the puddles that had collected around the drain until I was up against the tiled wall with the sharp point brushing my throat.

"Are you going to kill me, Miles?" I retorted.

"If I have to. It will be quicker than if I allow you follow this ruinous course you seem bent on pursuing."

"You know about the race." That much was evident. "How?"

He gave a light shrug. "That you do not know speaks of your ignorance. That is pardonable. But others may not be as generous. If I let you go, Sherlock, if you scurry off to tell your little tale to the stewards, if you dabble in affairs that do not concern you, I doubt that you will live to see another dawn."

"You seem very sure that I shall fail."

"On the contrary, I have every confidence that you shall succeed. That is where the danger lies."

I stared hard at him. "Then you'll have to kill me, because I am leaving."

I began to push myself from the muddy floor only to feel the prick of the blade as Miles pressed it into the skin above my Adam's apple. I hesitated, suspended between floor and basin, feeling the tickle of blood down my neck. I believed he could not kill a man in cold blood. But then what did I really know of him? That he was a thief certainly. Had murder ever been counted among his crimes?

I tried to rise again. The blade was driven a little deeper. I could feel the edge of the steel scraping against my windpipe. I looked into his eyes, searching and finding grim resolve. They say all men have the capacity for evil. For some, it is only a matter of degree. Miles would kill me, I was certain of it, if he thought he had to do so, out of some misguided regard for my protection. On the other hand, he had no great love for me, despite our family bond. I knew he blamed me for the death of a friend. Because of that, he had tried to sabotage my career. Had that been enough, I wondered, to settle the debt?

The question was never answered. Our deadlock was broken by the sudden clatter of metal and the rattle of the door knob being turned. Miles withdrew the blade enough to clear my flesh, but kept it close to prevent my escape. This was the scene that met the startled eyes of a grizzled attendant who appeared bearing a mop and bucket. He stared at the blood trickling between the fingers I had pressed to my neck to stem the bleeding, and then eyed the shining unwavering blade of the sword-stick.

"A thief," said Miles unconcernedly. "I'm just teaching the blackguard a lesson."

"I see," said the attendant warily.

Miles flipped him a half-sovereign. "Why don't you come back later?"

"Right-o, guv'nor," said the old fellow, touching his cap. "Didn't see a thing, I didn't. I'll leave you to it, gents. Never saw a thing."

With that, he retreated, closing the door behind him. Miles took a step backwards, never taking his eyes from me, and reaching up, slid the bolt in place.

"There now, we won't be disturbed again." He produced a handkerchief to wipe my blood from his blade. "Cousin Sherlock, forever tilting at windmills. When will you ever learn?"

I had to concede that Miles had won this battle. The race would be under way by now. In a few minutes, Artemis, in the guise of Catherine the Great, would be crossing the winning line, to the dismay of the bookmakers and the delight of the betting public. My confinement would not be wasted, however. Miles knew more about this affair than I been able to discover. I knew how, but the why had eluded me.

"Are you going to tell me how you knew?"

"Let's say I enjoy the odd flutter."

I shook my head. "Betting on fixed races? Forgive me if I don't believe you. It lacks your usual flair, Miles. You would not be here without good cause, especially given that Scotland Yard is looking for you."

"Oh, the cause is excellent. I have £500 on Catherine the Great to win at 100-1. The proceeds of this race shall keep me in the style to which I have become accustomed for a few months or so."

I was not deceived by his off-hand manner. "Don't chop logic with me. If you are here, it is because you have been told about the race. Why should they entrust that information to you?"

Miles studied me with interest. "What would be your conclusion?"

Several possibilities came to mind, the most obvious being the least palatable. "Payment for services rendered. A means of legitimising an illicit transaction. Your client pays the bookmakers, who in turn pay you when the horse wins."

"Excellent, my dear boy, excellent," said he, giving me a patronising clap.

"I trust it was worth it."

At that, his expression sobered. He threw me the soiled handkerchief and carefully returned the blade to the stick. "As it happens, I have come to regret my part in the transaction. I believe I have cast pearls before swine."

"In the matter of a Van Dyck portrait of King Charles I, stolen from the home of Viscount Launceston?"

Miles' brows rose in approval. "Is that all the whey-faced devil admitted to? Well, I am not so surprised, considering the underhand method by which he came to own the piece in question. I kept the Van Dyck for myself. It... _amused_ me. I've hung it in my Paris apartment. I gaze upon it in the manner of the cat that looked at a king, and reflect how universal is man's folly, even in the divinely-inspired."

"Then what did you steal?"

I fancied I saw those keen eyes dull, as though turned inwards to examine a dark stain upon his soul. "A Renaissance portrait of the Madonna and Child by the Florentine artist, Filippo Lippi. It was a jewel, Sherlock, a thing of exquisite beauty. When I beheld her lovely face, I caught myself believing in the existence of a Creator. How can such things be, if not from the hand of one who knows perfection?"

He pressed his eyes tightly shut as if trying to suppress the memory.

"Is there a special place in Dante's Hell for those who betray beauty, I wonder? I have passed her into the hands of heathens for so many gold coins. You may call me Judas with good reason. It is nothing compared to the contempt I feel for myself."

"To whom did you sell the painting?"

Miles waved the question aside. "That does not concern you."

"Permit me my speculation, Miles." I rose from the grimy floor, this time unhindered. "It is someone who has expensive tastes and the wealth to indulge them, by foul means if not fair. He has the reach and ability to influence the outcome a race, and thus legitimise the payments he makes to his minions. This is no grasping collector. If I am not mistaken, he is the man you called The Professor."

Miles' eyes darted briefly in my direction before he looked away.

"Deny it," I challenged him.

He shrugged. "The truth is absolute, Sherlock. What would you have me say?"

"Tell me his name."

"Be careful what you wish for," said Miles. "Speak of the Devil and he shall appear."

"This is not a game. Men have died."

"They will not be the last. Let sleeping dogs lie, dear boy. You will live longer that way. As for me, I must make peace with my conscience."

"I do not care about a painting," I retorted. "A man was killed for daring to speak his name."

"Then he was a foolish man indeed."

"No, he was a scared man. He was a prisoner at Postern. He was murdered before he could reveal the identity of the man for whom he had worked."

As I had been speaking, I had become aware of a subtle change in him. A stiffening of the back, a rigid line to the jaw and the hard stare now he turned on me warned me that he knew something of the business.

"His name, do you know it?" he demanded.

"Mosteyn Jones. He was a–"

"A forger, yes, I know. He was also a friend." A strange smile took shape on his lips as he began to tap his cane against the floor in impatient manner. "An indifferent artist, but as an imitator, he had no equal. The Professor had use for such a man."

"Until he became a liability."

Miles nodded, almost wearily, as though he was tired of the mesh of lies and intrigue in which his life had become tangled. "Mosteyn was delicate. Well, you know the artistic temperament. He should have been protected, not thrown as a sop to the police. His death warrant was signed the day he entered that prison. It was only a matter of time."

He glanced over at me. "How did they kill him? Do you know?"

"He was smothered with a pillow. I left him for a moment and when I returned–"

I stopped abruptly, for Miles had let out the bellow of a man in the deepest of agonies. Before I could react, he had hurled himself at me, eyes blazing, grabbing me by the lapels and pinning me against the wall.

"You fool!" he raged. "You unmitigated little fool! Do you know what you have done? Tell me, Sherlock, do you intend to kill all my friends? Was one life not enough for you, that you felt obliged to claim another?"

I fought to free myself from his grasp. Whatever strength I had regained from my time in the stables counted as naught against the greater force of a man driven by anger.

"Jones was weak," I retorted.

"He was a gentle soul!" Miles thumped my head against the tiles to emphasise his point, and I began to feel my fragile hold on consciousness failing. "He did not deserve to die!"

"I did not kill him. You did, Miles, the day you recommended him to your paymaster!"

At that, I saw the fire dampen in his eyes. The ferocious grip on my collar loosened and I was able to breathe again. He released me and took a step away.

"Who did the deed?"

"A blond man, of average height and build, blue eyes. I took him for a prison warder. I remember he had excellent teeth, for he smiled at me as we passed."

Miles nodded. "They call him 'The Smiler'. He takes pride in his work, a little too much, from what I hear. I can only hope it was quick."

"It was."

He sighed and took a moment to brush away the creases he had made in my jacket. His keen eyes met mine and slowly I saw a frown settle on his brow.

"This was another of your cases, I suppose," said he.

"Not one of my successes."

He grunted. "We all have those. A man can be measured in his response to defeat, not the number of his triumphs." He paused. "Sherlock, did they know your name?"

"No, I used an alias."

"And now, this business you're meddling in?"

"Nobody knows my true identity."

It was a long moment before he spoke again. "When did you start using laudanum?"

I started. "How did you–"

"Your pupils are dilated," he explained. "I noticed it outside. Looking at you closer, I see the signs. How much are you taking?"

"Enough, no thanks to my brother."

"Mycroft?" He looked puzzled. "What has he to do with this?"

"He has been poisoning me these few last months. To be accurate, he has had his creatures do it for him. Not that he would sully his hands with such work."

"My dear boy," said Miles, almost laughing at the very idea, "your brother is many things, but I cannot believe such a charge. Now, if you were to ask me if I could murder my own brothers, then I should say without a doubt. But you, were you my brother, I should treasure you like the rarest jewel. Mycroft knows your worth. Unless..." The thought that had struck him etched itself in deep creases in the lines of his face. "Unless Mycroft has lost control. There is no doubt, I suppose. You have proof?"

"I have proof from his own hand. Miles, what do you mean, 'lost control'? Certainly he has been acting peculiarly. Did you know he was to marry?"

His eyebrows rose. "You do surprise me. To whom?"

"The eldest daughter of the Earl of Roselynn."

"I know the family," said Miles. "The youngest daughter is…_spirited_."

"I have made her acquaintance. She was quite open about your dealings."

He sought to suppress his amusement. "If the sister is anything like Lady Hester, I fail to see what possessed her to accept Mycroft's proposal."

"A previous engagement was terminated by her fiancé."

"Ah, poor girl. And Mycroft's motives?"

"He was vague."

"I dare say he was."

A pinched look came to his eye. On an impulse, he pressed my arm, squeezing it in a gesture of reassurance.

"My dear boy, what have they done to you? What happened to that eager young fellow I nurtured under my wing?" As he spoke, I could have sworn I saw the beginnings of tears in his eyes. "Well, it is not too late. There is nothing that good food, sunlight and a change of scenery cannot improve. At the end of the week, I shall be leaving for Florence. I have been neglectful of a certain Countess and I must pay court. I want you to come with me, Sherlock."

"I cannot. I must see this business through to the end."

"It ends today," said he. "After the race is won, after the payments have been made, the deceit will be made public. So, you see, there really is no need for you to interfere. Leave these soggy isles and join me on the Continent."

At his words, I felt the blood drain from my face. I thought of the furore that would follow this revelation. I thought of the resulting investigation and the bookmaker who would admit taking a bet from a certain detective from Scotland Yard. Dig deeper, and they would find it had not been the first time. The scandal that would follow, so close on the heels of the last, would be in the final nail in the Yard's coffin. To prevent that, to save what was left of public confidence in the experiment of detection over prevention, there would have to be a sacrifice.

"Why?" I demanded. "What benefit can exposure bring the Professor?"

Miles' eyes flashed with irritation. "How the deuce would I know? I am employed on an ad hoc basis. I am not privy to his innermost secrets. But if I had to guess–"

"Don't guess."

"Very well, then, if I had to _conjecture_," said he, "no one forfeits a satisfactory business arrangement unless there is some advantage to it."

"If he had other plans, then he would use Lestrade as a means of distracting Scotland Yard while he acted unhindered."

The potential of the events which were about to unfold were too dire to contemplate. I knew what I had to do. I knew too that I needed an ally.

"We have to stop this," I said. "We cannot let the horse be exposed as a ringer."

"You are a contrary fellow," said Miles. "In one breath, you champion justice. In the next, you are all for suppressing the truth."

"A man's life depends upon it."

"Yours?" he queried.

"Inspector Lestrade. He will be implicated."

"That unctuous little detective who wants to see me behind bars?" Miles snorted. "Why the devil should I care?"

"He has a family."

"Doesn't everyone?"

"They will suffer because of this."

"I'm sure they shall. You still haven't answered my question."

I swallowed the tattered remnants of my pride. "Help me. I cannot fail again."

Miles smiled wryly. "In that case, how can I refuse?"

"Can you stop it?"

"I believe I can. What of your Inspector?"

"If he reveals the deception before they do, he can claim that any bets he laid were made in the course of his investigation."

At that moment came a sharp knocking at the door.

"I hope he appreciates the efforts being made on his behalf," said Miles, grudgingly. "You do understand, Sherlock, that there is only so much I can do. If you find yourself in difficulties because of your folly, then you will be on your own."

"I understand. Danger is part of my trade."

"Then so be it."

Miles slid the bolt back and opened the door to find an irate silk-hatted man on the threshold. "Tell me, sir," said he to the newcomer, "has the Albert Stakes been run?"

"Yes, indeed. A rank outsider romped home. A filly called Catherine the Great. Now, what's going on in here? Why was this door locked? Don't you know there's a queue?"

Miles nodded to me. "I shall attend to that other matter after I collect my winnings. Good day, Cousin. Don't forget my offer. If you change your mind, and I do hope you will, I am staying at the Langham."

He stepped out and was gone. I had to wait while a gaggle of discontented gentleman made their way inside before slipping out. If Lestrade had followed my instructions, then I expected to find him near the Parade Ring. With the winning horses being led in, the crowd was thirty deep by the railings, a mass of rubicund faces, men and women, rich and poor, cheering and waving. Discarded betting slips from those who had backed the beaten favourite littered the floor, trampled by those who had faith in the outsider.

Their enthusiasm did not work in my favour. With so many people, it was difficult to find Lestrade. I fancied I caught sight of his back, only to be disappointed when I saw the fellow's red bulging nose, broken veins and thick ginger moustache. When at last I did espy him, he was on the other side of the ring, half-hidden in the steam that rose from the horse's heaving flanks.

I pressed towards him, raising my hand to catch his attention. As I did so, I felt the small hard muzzle of a pistol grind into the small of my back.

"Easy now," came Billy Williams' voice. "Don't go making a fuss, Henry. Someone might get hurt. That's it, slowly now. You're coming with me. Mr Milton wants a word with you."

* * *

_Just when it was going to so well! Will Miles stop the race-fixing being made public? What does Milton want with Holmes? And what did Miles mean about Mycroft losing control?_

_Continued in Chapter Eighteen!_


	19. Chapter 18

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Eighteen: Kingdom for a Horse**

Milton's idea of talking involved his fists.

I was left bruised, sore and doubled over in pain, spitting blood onto the straw of Greyfriar's stable, because I would not give him the answer to a seemingly simple question.

"Where is it, Holmes?" Milton roared again. "I know you have it. Now, for the last time, _where_ is it?"

He was referring to the bottle I had taken from Bailey's pocket. I had given it to Lestrade for safe-keeping, and I hoped he had it still. Not that I was about to tell Milton. His need to know confirmed what I had suspected about its importance and the role it played in helping his horses to win. If I wanted to investigate further, however, I needed a means of escape. I needed to get to Lestrade to tell him of the fraud and have the stewards intervene. Milton's anger and his continued, if unwanted, presence meant that Miles had played his part in stopping the exposure. Now I had to play mine.

That seemed a forlorn hope, as matters were increasingly taken out of my hands. Before Milton could launch another assault, Bailey appeared. He dismissed me and my battered appearance with a fleeting glance, instead concentrating on Milton.

"Has he told you where it is yet?" he asked.

"No," grunted Milton, rubbing his bleeding knuckles. "But he will."

"We don't time. He informed the Clerk of the Course about Catherine the Great. Samuel was there. He said Mr Temple told him to see Mr Bowles."

I had a moment to recall the undistinguished man who had accompanied the bumptious Clerk of Course whilst on his inspection of the racecourse before Milton aimed a kick at my stomach. I rolled away in time to prevent serious damage to my ribs.

"Did you tell Bowles?" he demanded.

"No, Mr Milton, he didn't," said Bailey.

"When I caught him, he looked like he was about to make trouble," said Billy Williams. "He was trying to catch the steward's attention."

In matter of fact, it had been Lestrade that I was trying to alert. He had been looking in every direction except mine, and I had no confidence that he had seen me. If no one knew where I was, then I could not count on outside assistance. I was mindful too of the length of time since I had last taken laudanum. Opportunities are limited when one's own wits are not to be trusted. I remembered what Miles had told me about being on my own if anything went wrong. His prediction was proving to be painfully accurate. If we ever met again, in life or death, he would have the satisfaction of knowing he was right.

Meanwhile, Milton's face had turned white. He was rigid, as though the horror of his thoughts had transfixed him to the ground. "We're leaving," he said suddenly. "Get the horses loaded up. Bring Holmes with us. We'll find somewhere to deal with him on the way."

"Chatterton Parva might be the place," suggested Bailey. "It's a small place, not much more than a wayside halt. Not too many people about."

"Very well. Bailey, you go with the horses to London. Williams and I can deal with this trouble-maker. Let's go now."

In the midst of this frenzied activity, my chances of evading my captors seemed ever more remote. Williams took great pleasure in binding my hands behind my back with twine before marching me across to the waiting horse-boxes. If it is possible to be invisible in the midst of a crowd, so it proved for us. Williams held a blanket over the pistol he kept pressed against my lower back, stifling my impulse to yell out my predicament. As tempting as it was, this was not the time for escape. At this range, the injuries would be catastrophic. That being the case, I kept my peace and bided my time.

Once inside the horse-box, he lashed me to a ring in the wall and stuffed a handkerchief in my mouth, securing it in place by a length of bandage which he knotted firmly at the back of my head. Beyond kicking my heels against the floor in the vain hope of alerting someone, there was little else I could do as the horses were loaded and we set off towards the railway station.

As the box rattled and lurched and Greyfriar lent a sympathetic nose to sniff at my plight, I had a chance to reflect that Milton had known nothing about the thwarted exposure. He considered that I represented the greatest danger. Had Miles not intercepted the Professor's man, then Milton would have been as much surprised as the rest of the race-goers when the switching of the horses was revealed. He had been nothing more than a cog in a wheel that rewarded informers and paid agents and implicated gullible police detectives. When his services were no longer required, his master had turned on him and left him to pay the price.

For undoubtedly it would be Milton who bore the brunt of the scandal. He could claim of being in the pay of a higher agency and simply working to orders, but I doubted he knew the Professor's name. The fact he was still alive was proof of that. His master, whoever he was, had a habit of eliminating those who could prove a liability. The calculated murder of Mosteyn Jones had taught me that much.

No wonder then that the suggestion I had alerted the stewards had put him to flight. As far as he knew, he was to maintain the charade. I wondered what he had in store for me. More beatings until I presented him with a solution he could present to his master. And then what? I did not doubt death lay in store for poor Henry at Chatterton Parva. I would have to be sure that he did not take Sherlock with him.

At the railway station, I was untied and led on the off-side of Greyfriar, at gunpoint and away from the sight of the station master, up the ramp and into a waiting horse wagon. Once again, I was secured to the wall. Williams smiled as he checked the gag and then threw the pistol to Danny Palmer, who was to accompany me in the wagon.

"If he makes a nuisance of himself, shoot him in the leg," Williams had ordered. "Don't kill him. Mr Milton isn't finished with him yet."

Palmer had looked stricken. "I'm not sure I know how."

"You want to be a jockey, don't you?" Williams had said, patting the boy menacingly on the cheek. "Good boy. You do as you're told and you'll be a champion in no time."

With that, he had departed. The ramp closed and we were left in semi-gloom. The wagon shuddered as the train got under way and soon the regular clatter of the wheels was counting the miles. Palmer had backed himself up in the opposite corner, and had the gun pointed at me as though he expected me to spring at him any moment. In the hands of the scared and inexperienced, a pistol can be as deadly as when wielded by a sharp-shooter. Sudden movements can provoke a shot, and I endeavoured, as best I could in the swaying carriage, to present as little a threat as possible.

I also recognised that Palmer represented my best chance of escape. I remembered our talk in the stable after the Lincoln race, of his gratitude when I had saved him from a beating at Vigor's hands. I had to trust that my intervention might still work in my favour. But to do that, I needed to talk, and that was impossible whilst I was gagged.

With the bones of a plan formed in my mind, I set to work on Palmer. I began by retching. It required no great feat of acting considering I had a bundle of filthy fabric in my mouth. Palmer watched me, both hands still holding the pistol, but now with a worried look on his face.

"Henry?" he said at last. "Are you all right?"

I shook my head. The taste of bile was burning in my throat.

"Do you need water?"

I nodded.

"I'm not sure I'm allowed to give you any."

I looked him straight in the eye, and I saw his resolve waver.

"All right then," said he, pocketing the pistol. "Don't try anything."

He dragged a bucket of water over to my side, and then set about untying the gag. When he pulled the handkerchief from my mouth, I gulped in fresh air and resolved to convince him not to force it back in again. Cupping his hands, he took up a little water and offered it to me. I drank it, thankful for the return of moisture to my parched lips. We repeated this routine several times, until Palmer lost his nerve and reached again for the handkerchief.

"Danny, don't," I said despairingly. "Help me."

"I can't, Henry. I warned you not to make trouble."

He leant forward with the rag. I drew back.

"They're lying to you, Danny. You'll never be a champion jockey if you stay with Milton. You know what they've done to Vigor."

"They give him something and he wins races."

"It's driven him insane."

"You don't know that."

"He beat you, Danny, because he knows what they'll do to you, what they did to _him_. That's why he called you a fool."

His voice broke when he tried to deny it. "No, I don't believe you."

I pressed home my advantage, now that the doubt was planted in his mind. "What do you think they're going to do me?"

He swallowed hard. "Mr Milton will give you a beating for your insolence."

"He's already done that, Danny. I'll wager they intend to kill me once they've got what they want. That makes you an accomplice to murder."

"I've done nothing!" he wailed. "All I've ever wanted to do is ride horses."

We were fast approaching the hamlet of Chatterton Parva. I was running out of time. "Then untie me. We'll leave together. I'll expose Milton for the fraud he is, and then you can go to an honest trainer."

Palmer looked pained. "Why did you have to interfere, Henry?"

"It's what I do, Danny. I'm not a groom. I'm a detective. I can help you."

He shook his head, his expression as sad as a child deprived of toys. "I can't come with you, Henry. I'll never ride again if Milton catches me. He said if I ever betrayed him, he would break my legs." He sobered a little. "But I will let you go. Only..."

"Yes?"

"Would you knock me out? I can say that you over-powered me. Mr Milton won't be so angry if he thinks it wasn't my fault."

I agreed. Palmer set to work on the knots and before long, I was free and rubbing my wrists to get the blood flowing to my numb hands. He watched quietly, waiting for me to keep my part of the bargain. I took the pistol from him and brought it down hard on the back of his head. He collapsed without a whimper into the yielding straw, well away from the hooves of the agitated horses.

My plan depended on surprise and the fleetness of a horse called Greyfriar. The thoroughbred was tired after his race, where he had not disgraced himself by coming a respectable third. He made no protest when I slipped on his bridle or when I lowered the saddle onto his back and tightened the girth. As the train pulled into the platform, I settled myself on his back and waited.

Through the slits in the wagon's sides, I could see shapes of all colours moving, blocking the light as they passed. Whistles and the hiss of the engine could be heard, along with the unmistakable tones of Williams and Bailey. I patted Greyfriar's neck as the bolts were pulled back. The ramp was lowered and I drove my heels into the horse's side. He half-reared and surged forward, knocking Williams backwards. Someone screamed as the gelding slid down the ramp and thundered onto the platform, momentarily panicked by the change from dark to light and the sight of a startled station master waving his hands in fear.

I turned his head away from them and towards the end of the platform. On the other side of the tracks lay open fields and somewhere in the distance beyond the sleepy collection of thatched cottages would be a town with a police force to take charge of Milton and his cronies.

Towards the rear of the train, the platform dipped and I steered Greyfriar down it. He skipped the tracks, leaving us facing a hedge at least five feet high. One supposes that all horses know how to jump. Less so their riders, and as I urged Greyfriar towards the obstacle, I wound his mane around my hand and gripped his sides with my knees. I put my faith in the horse, and he did not fail.

If anything, the sight of the hedge only encouraged him. He timed his approach to perfection and cleared the brush with inches to spare. The world rose and fell, and the impact of the landing almost shook me from the saddle. With nothing before us, Greyfriar snatched at the reins and took off across the grass at full gallop. I righted myself and glanced over my shoulder. People filled every window of the carriages, staring out at us with alarm and wonderment. I thought I saw something glint on the station roof, but I was too far away to be sure. At least no one was following us. We were free, and Greyfriar was enjoying every minute of it.

I let him run, every flying step increasing the distance between us and the train. I deluded myself that we were safe. Then rang out a sound like a whipcrack.

Greyfriar's head jerked up and his front legs stopped galloping. Momentum from the rear forced us on, even as the front of his body collapsed. There was a splintering crack of bone as the legs buckled beneath us. I plummeted down, followed by half a ton of muscle and sweating horse-flesh. We rolled and kept rolling till Greyfriar's weight came bearing down on me, pinning me under his flanks.

I lay there, dazed and winded. The horse did not stir. The bullet had entered his skull beneath his ear and embedded itself in his brain. An occasional quiver ran through the broken limbs as the last vestiges of life were extinguished. Greyfriar would never rise again.

I had not escaped unscathed. Three fingers on the hand that had taken the brunt of the fall stuck out at unnatural angles. With the return of sensation came a fierce pain from my left ankle, hidden from my sight and trapped under the dead weight of the animal. I tried to pull myself free and ended up crying my frustration to the high heavens.

I knew now that the glint of metal on the roof had been a rifle. The distance had been as nothing to the man who had used it. Had we turned our backs fully the station, the bullet could have been intended for my head. With the field obliging us to take a diagonal course, it was Greyfriar who had been the larger and easier target.

Now I was trapped again and in worse state than before. Somewhere too under the horse was the pistol I had taken from Palmer. I heaved and pulled, knowing that Milton would surely investigate. Sure enough, he soon appeared, his face red with anger and a murderous look in his eyes. Had there not been witnesses, I was certain he would have strangled me with his bare hands. Instead, he was obliged to make some show of restraint. Under the circumstances, the stinging slap I received across the face was mild.

"I'll tear you limb from limb for this," he snarled. "Williams, how did this happen?"

"It looks like he got the better of Danny," said he, appearing at the trainer's side. "The lad's out cold in the wagon."

"Never send a boy to do a man's work," Milton retorted. "You should have stayed with him!"

"I didn't hear Bailey volunteering to sit in horse muck."

"And now we've got a dead horse on our hands. We'll have to stay here for the night. Get the horses off that train and find stables for them. Somewhere quiet, Williams, where we won't be disturbed." He ground one fist into another. "Then you're going to tell me what you did with that bottle, aren't you, Holmes? If that is your name."

I stared back at him defiantly.

"I asked the Earl of Roselynn about you. He said he never sent a groom. So who are you?"

"I know who he is."

The voice was unfamiliar. Its owner had been steadily advancing on us, and I saw now that what I had mistaken from my low vantage point as a cane was in fact the barrel of a rifle. I looked up into a young, boyish face, topped with hair the colour of freshly-cut hay and wide blue eyes. The smile broadened, revealing strong white teeth with sharp pointed canines. The last time I had seen that face was in the prison where he had taken a slip of paper from me and smothered the forger, Mosteyn Jones.

He was the man Miles had called 'The Smiler'.

* * *

_Gulp! When the Professor sends his top assassin, you know things aren't going to end well. You will not want to miss the next instalment!_

_Continued in Chapter Nineteen!_

_And my thanks to everyone who's been kind enough to leave reviews! Much appreciated._


	20. Chapter 19

_Author's Note: Someone asked about what sort of transport they would have used to get the horses to and from the railway station. They would have used horse-boxes or trailers, exactly the same as they use today, either covered or open, the main difference being is that the vehicle would be pulled by horses. _

_Everyone else - thanks for the reviews. And now you're about to meet a very nasty man. 'Ouch' moments will follow._

* * *

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Nineteen: Hobbled**

A few words will suffice as to my knowledge of the immediate aftermath of the shooting.

Once the Smiler had made himself known, his business had not been introductions, but in silencing me. We had attracted too much attention. From the distant train, the station master, accompanied by several well-meaning passengers, was heading in our direction to see if he could be of assistance. I remember Milton swearing under his breath. I saw a flush of concern pass across Williams' face. The counterpoint to this was the serenity of the blond-haired assassin.

Without haste, he turned his back to the oncoming mob, smiled that familiar, sickly smirk and brought the butt of the rifle down on my head.

When I awoke, it was to find myself lashed about the wrists and chest to a wooden chair with a hard, spindle back that dug into my spine and made easy repose impossible. By some means, I had been dragged from beneath the dead horse and conveyed to a barn with a high arching roof. Lined both sides with horse-stalls with sturdy wooden doors, each compartment had metal bars rising above head height to keep the occupants confined and out of mischief with their neighbours.

Day had passed into night while I had been unconscious, and the gloom hung about the stalls like a shroud. What little moonlight there was came through the small windows set high in the brick walls above, illuminating aged cobwebs and dust particles that spun a lazy dance in the air. But this place was not deserted. I caught the rich, tangy odour of new hay intermingling with fresh manure and leather. Somewhere behind me, I heard the sway and sigh of a resting horse, and the stamp of a hoof as another stirred in its sleep.

As to my own predicament, it would require an optimist of rare confidence to call it anything other than unfavourable.

I had three broken fingertips, a throbbing head and an ankle that had acquired a consciousness of its own. It screamed its awareness at every movement, and demanded immobility. My bootlaces were unpleasantly tight, betraying the swelling that had added width to the thickening joint. I was confident, however, that it was not broken. Despite the pain, I had command over it. Whether I could put any weight on it was another matter.

I would never get the chance to test that theory unless I could free myself from the chair. The next time I saw Milton or Bailey or Williams or the Smiler, I was fairly certain it would be my last. Before that, they wanted something from me. I had been silenced in that field for a reason, when it would have been just as easy to have killed me and blamed it on the fall.

Now I was at their mercy, with the knowledge that no one in the world knew where I was. Miles had warned me of such an eventuality. He had also said there would be no rescue. I hoped being right would give him some solace.

I thought I knew too what was to be required of me. It was the one thing that I could not give, in any sense of the word. If it was the bottle, then it remained with Lestrade and he was far distant, either still waiting news from me at the racecourse or heading home, ignorant of my plight.

And then there was Mycroft. In a few hours, he would have another cause to mourn, not just the loss of a fiancée, but a brother too. I doubted he would shed an honest tear for either of us.

I was forced to abandon this unprofitable line of thought when a quickening breeze touched my skin. A yellow glow started to spread from the direction of the doors, sending rats scuttling into darkened recesses. Men's voices, low and indistinct, came to my ear, accompanied by the steady tramp of feet drawing ever closer. I bowed my head in imitation of sleep and kept my eyes shut against the sudden glare that filled the stall and brought with it the smell of stale beer and sweat.

"Is he awake?" I heard Milton say.

In answer, I felt a boot land on my injured ankle, forcing it sideways and down. A fresh infusion of pain welled up like a rising tide, barrelling through my ribs and pounding at the walls of my chest until it forced its way up my throat and out of my mouth.

"Yes, he's awake," Williams smirked. "Whoever you are."

The question of my identity was best left to others to reveal. Even on this small point, they would get no help from me.

And then, with the entrance of the final witnesses to this drama, that mystery too was laid to rest. The Smiler entered the stall, a Gladstone bag swinging from one hand, and trailing Bailey and Danny Palmer in his wake.

"His name is Sherlock Holmes," said he indifferently, as though the matter had long since ceased to hold any fascination for him. "However, that is not so important as what he is."

It was Milton who took the bait. "What is he?"

"A private detective. Oh, forgive me." He checked himself with mock humility. "A private _consulting_ detective. There is a difference, so I'm told."

"What the devil is that?" Milton thundered.

The Smiler sneered at him. "Someone with more intelligence than you'll ever have."

"You mean he isn't Henry?" spoke up Palmer, his wide-set eyes made all the more round by the awe with which he beheld this gathering. I did not blame him for conveniently forgetting our conversation in the horse wagon or that I had already told him of my profession. In this company, the wise man looked to his own salvation.

"He lied to you, Danny," said my antagonist. "He lies for a living. That is what he does. He lies, he pries, and then he tells all those little secrets to the police. Secrets gleaned from that loose-lipped father of yours, Milton. And _your_ secrets, Danny."

Palmer looked from him to me, our eyes meeting. The distress roiling his youthful features was no convenient invention. He had genuinely believed I had been an ally.

"You _did_ lie to me," said the boy, his voice full of bitterness and hurt. "You pretended you were my friend. You used me, Henry... or whatever your name is."

As the death-bell had tolled for Henry, there seemed little point in denying it. Nor did there seem any need to rub further salt in the wound. I said nothing, and the cause was taken up by his smiling confidante.

"It comes naturally to a member of a class whose very existence is a careful construct of falsehood and sycophancy," he explained. "They lie to others as blithely as they lie to themselves. What did you tell the boy, Mr Holmes? Did you express sympathy for his plight? Did you offer him a better life if he told you want you wanted to know?" His lips twitched with amusement. "Well, they do say the old lies are the best, and never wasted on green children and gullible women."

"He did say me that," Danny insisted. "He asked a lot of questions."

"And you did nothing, Mr Milton," said the Smiler, now turning on the trainer.

The bully withered before a superior opponent. "How was I to know?" he protested. "I had other things to worry about. You tell the Professor–"

"Results are what concern him, not excuses. What about the rest of you?"

"I didn't take to him from the first," said Williams, grinning down at me from where he was lounging up against the wall. "I knew something wasn't right about him."

"Quite so. He may smell like a mongrel and dress like a cur, but something of the pedigree remains. And you do have a pedigree, don't you, Mr Holmes? Pampered, privileged, shielded from the gaze of your boyhood peers, beloved as the daughter your parents never had."

I had my answer from whom he had obtained his information. George, Lord Shadwell, was always free with gossip, especially when alcohol was involved.

"Who are you?" I said.

In the sepulchral silence that followed as he considered my request, despite the thin glow from the lantern, I was struck by the sensation of encroaching darkness. It was as if this individual, with his savage tangle of golden curls and sparkling teeth, had the ability to absorb light without ever imparting it.

"Like you, I have many names," he replied eventually, stooping to bring his face level to mine. "Flags of convenience, you might say. Does it matter so much to you?"

"I am burdened with a curious nature."

The blue eyes shone like ice. "Some folk say that to know a man's name is to work ill with it."

"As you have ably demonstrated."

"Indeed." A flicker of amusement drifted across his face. "However, I realise that to man like yourself and in light of your situation, such a concept might be a... comfort to you. The proprieties must be observed. If you wish, you may call me Mr Clarence."

"What is my situation?"

Clarence straightened and threw back his shoulders like a barnyard cockerel. "Dire, Mr Holmes. I'm going to kill you, naturally. I haven't decided how, just yet. Your willingness to co-operate may have some influence on my decision."

"And if I choose not to co-operate?"

"You will, do not trouble yourself on that account," said Clarence, as though the matter had never been up for debate. "You took something that didn't belong to you. I want it back. Where is it?"

I held his gaze. "I don't know what you mean."

Milton took a step towards me, fist raised, eyes glaring. Clarence barred his way with raised hand.

"Now, now, Mr Milton, give Mr Holmes time to think."

"He's had time," growled the trainer. "I'll loosen his tongue."

"You tried, and _failed_," Clarence said pointedly. "Time to let me try."

I watched, aware of a dampness spreading across my forehead and the involuntary clenching of my stomach muscles, as he deposited his bag on the empty hay manger and began to unbutton his coat.

"You led us quite a merry dance," said he, in conversational manner which sat ill with the rising tension in the cramped little stall. "A shame about the horse. I never like killing dumb animals. I remember once I had to slip a guard dog a dose of nux vomica. The sight of that poor creature in its death throes will stay with me till my dying day. Now, ask me about people, and I'm afraid one is very much like another. When it comes down to it, they cry and beg and plead, as though that's supposed to make me feel sorry for them. It never does. Now, your little friend in the prison, he went quietly. Didn't make a whimper when I put that pillow over his face. He knew it had to happen and accepted it. That's a good way to die."

They say it is better to learn late rather than never. I was learning the cost of under-estimating one's enemy. As brief as our initial meeting had been, I had been marked. Enquiries had been made, to what extent I could not be sure. I had been unforgivably careless and guilty of the worst conceit to assume that, by dint of my superior intelligence, I had been able to slip by unnoticed.

I could have blamed my brother, the laudanum, the lingering memory of a rope about my neck, a need to prove something to myself and the world at large – but I knew it ran deeper, like an inclusion in an otherwise flawless diamond. The fruit of my vanity is shame, as Petrarch says, and the clear knowledge that whatever is pleasing is but a brief dream. If so, it was a dream from which I was about to be rudely awakened.

With his sleeves rolled up, Clarence stood before me, cracking his knuckles. His gaze ranged over me, before settling on my left hand.

"You've made a mess of those fingers," said he. "They'll need attention if you ever want to play the fiddle again."

He took my skewed little finger in his hand and gently tested the bone.

"My father was a doctor, you know," he remarked. "Well, that's what I called him, although, truth be told, I'm the natural son of a milord with a roving eye and a fondness for scullery maids. According to my mother, she knew the doctor had a fondness for her. So when she found out she was expecting, she guiled him into a dalliance and told him it was his. He believed her, or wanted to. I think that's sad, don't you, how people will demean themselves for sentiment."

So saying, he suddenly snapped the bone back into place. It seemed to take the longest time to register anything other than the crippling pain that radiated from my bound hand. As it passed, I tasted blood in my mouth from where I had sunk my teeth into my lower lip.

Clarence moved onto the next finger.

"I think he knew though, in his heart," he continued. "We never spoke of it, but it was always there, this barrier between us. Me being young, I didn't understand. I tried to compensate by being the son I thought he wanted. I took an interest in his work, followed him everywhere. I learned how to listen to a heartbeat, how to dress a wound, how to set a bone. There was a time when I thought I wanted to be a doctor too. I thought it would please him, you see."

There was another sharp crack. I clenched my teeth and fought down a strangled cry.

"Then one day I realised that his path wasn't mine," he went on, moving his attention to the last of my twisted fingertips. "The day I told him I wouldn't be taking up medicine was the day he began to die. I blamed myself when he got ill. It wasn't until after he passed on that my mother told me the truth. She also told me who my real father was. D'you know what I did then, Mr Holmes?"

I shook my head. He stared at me for a long time, his cornflower eyes twinkling and unreadable.

"I found him and I killed him."

He drove his point home by realigning the bone with a vicious wrench. A fresh well of blood washed across my tongue, intermingled with the salty taste of sweat trickling onto the corners of my mouth. Only when the impulse to give vent to the pain subsided did I dare allow the ragged breaths to break from my lips.

"That's when I found my vocation, you might say," said Clarence, getting to his feet. "The hours suit me, and I get to meet the most interesting people. Like you, Mr Holmes." He studied me with something approaching pity. "You aren't going to tell me, are you?"

As I did not trust my voice, I shook my head.

Clarence sighed. "Well, I hoped it wouldn't come to this. But there's some that won't be tamed. I don't blame you; I ascribe it to your upbringing. The child is the architect of the man, so to speak. I understand it, but I do need an answer. Now, Mr Milton here will tell you that there's only one way to deal permanently with an unruly stallion. Danny, I saw a pair of shears out in the yard. Fetch them for me."

He leaned his hands on the arms of the chair and bent towards me.

"Well, Mr Holmes, what's it to be?"

It has been said that discretion is the better part of valour. Like Pandora, I had trapped hope within my breast with the expectation that I could yet turn failure into triumph. Under such circumstances, to trifle with a madman and court disfigurement is never to be treated lightly.

"I do not have it," I said grudgingly.

Clarence's ever-present smile broadened into a grin, the teeth as white as bleached bones.

"So you do have limits. I was beginning to wonder. But I think you can do better than that, Mr Holmes. Where is it?"

"I don't know. I threw it away."

For the first time, his brows converged into a single, suspicious line. "Now why would you do a silly thing like that?"

I had confused him. He needed a plausible explanation. I saw too an opportunity to extract from him the information I needed.

"I thought..." I paused and wiped my tongue over dry lips. "I needed laudanum. I saw the bottle, I thought it might be..."

Clarence suddenly grabbed my head, pulling back my eyelids. Just as quickly he released me with a muttered oath. There were limits to his information, after all.

"Milton, did you know about this?"

"If I had, I would have boxed his ears and sent him on his way."

Clarence glared at him with disdain. "Go on," he urged me.

"It wasn't laudanum," I continued. "I didn't know what it was. I threw it away."

"You don't believe that nonsense?" said Williams. "He's lying."

"He's not," spoke up Palmer. "He does take laudanum. I've seen him."

I glanced over at him. After what he had been told, he had no reason to help me. But his face was ashen and the light in his eyes bore the zeal of the converted, as though he had awoken to new truths and the terrifying reality of the situation.

Clarence did not need his reassurance. The son of a doctor was familiar enough with the signs of addiction not to need the opinion of a layman.

"Why were you interfering in the race?" he said instead.

"I had knowledge that Milton had swapped Artemis and Catherine the Great. He was running ringers."

"What concern was that of yours?"

For a moment, the question perplexed me. "It is a criminal act. Any upright citizen would have done the same thing."

Clarence shook his head. "No, Mr Holmes, any upright citizen would have laid his bets and kept his mouth shut. It takes someone with motive to attempt such foolishness as you tried. How much did you tell Lady Hester?"

I hesitated a fraction too long.

"I know she is your client. There can be no other. You are too impecunious to work for love of your art, and not privy to the sort of information which would have led you to us naturally. And then there was your letter of recommendation from Roselynn. Who else could have procured his personal stationery and produced so convincing a copy but a member of his family?" A concupiscent gleam came to his eye. "Are you lovers? Williams tells me you had a private interview with her when she came to view the horse."

Since he knew, all I could do was try not to implicate Lady Hester further.

"She is a client, nothing more," I said. "She knows nothing of the deception at Ascot. I did not have time to tell her. I was employed because she had concerns for her horse. She believed Mr Milton trained the animals less through kindness and more through fear. She also believed he would hurt Catherine the Great to make her win. The Earl was fond of telling everyone that the filly would triumph at Ascot."

Milton's face turned a deeper shade of purple. "That old fool," he raged. "And curse that meddlesome daughter of his too."

"Not so much a fool," I retorted. "He sold the horse before the race. He has his profit, whatever the outcome." I saw the look that came to the trainer's eye. "You have been thrown to the wolves, Mr Milton. I had no need to tell the racecourse stewards. The fraud was going to be revealed in any case."

"Who told you that?" Clarence demanded.

I decided on the lesser of two evils. Better that this fate awaited the undeserving rather than Miles. It also had the advantage that the person I had in mind was not present to deny my tale. It might buy me time.

"Vigor."

"Vigor knew nothing."

"He knows more than you think. An addict can be... _resourceful_ in the pursuit of his goal. And he despises Milton for what he has done to him."

"He's lying," Milton shouted. "Why would he tell you? He tried to kill you on the beach."

"And he laughed in my face when he told me. Irrational men make many unwise choices, Mr Milton. He seems to think his knowledge makes him the better man than either of us."

"There is another possibility," Clarence interrupted. "I know your cousin, Mr Miles Holmes, was at Ascot. Let us say for argument's sake, that he intercepted you, told you of the plan and convinced you to bide your time until after the race. Let us say he took you to a private place for this discussion – oh, the gentleman's conveniences, for instances – and gave you that nick on the neck with that sword-stick of his. Let us say further that you persuaded him to stop Samuels from uncovering the deception, as planned, in the Winner's Enclosure, because you wanted someone else to do it, a certain detective inspector of Scotland Yard by the name of Lestrade."

"Conjecture," I replied when the rigidity that wrapped itself around my insides at the initial shock of revelation had eased.

"Certainty," he replied. "As I said, Vigor knew nothing. I made sure of that before I killed him."

Milton started forwards. "Vigor is dead?"

"I hanged him from a beam beneath the main stands. He will be discovered tomorrow with a note in his pocket, detailing the deception and saying he could not live with the guilt. He will be written off as a hopeless suicide, but there will be an investigation and there will be ample evidence."

Clarence took a few steps to his bag and rummaged inside.

"Loyalty has its limits, Mr Milton. Your men will confirm that you were the mastermind behind the fraud. Isn't that right, Mr Williams?"

Less assured now, Williams gave the trainer an uncertain look.

"Ah, so you have some scruple," said Clarence. "Let me make it easier for you."

So saying, he pulled out a revolver and shot Milton through the heart. As the echo died away, the trainer's mouth gaped, his face a mask of shock, and wordlessly he fell to the ground.

"Mr Bailey, you have been promoted to trainer," Clarence announced with a chuckle. "You and Mr Williams are going to go back to the inn and make merry in the bar. It is important you are both noticed. Buy the regulars a drink, that usually does the trick. Palmer, you are going to stay here and help me with Mr Holmes."

The boy quailed.

Clarence stared at him. "You do want to be a jockey?"

Palmer nodded and bowed his head in acceptance.

"Good. Bailey, Williams, go. You won't see me again. I'm going to deal with Mr Holmes and then I'll be on my way. Whatever happens next I want to come as a surprise to you."

They left, hurriedly, without further persuasion, leaving me alone with Clarence and his unwilling acolyte.

"What now?" I asked.

"Now you help me to put things right. You see, had events been allowed to take their course, the racing world would be in uproar, Milton would be under arrest and questions would be being asked why a certain Yard man had travelled all the way to Ascot to lay bets on a winning outsider with no proven history of success. That will still happen, with the omission of Milton's arrest. There's going to be an accident here tonight. A young man with a grudge, who stole a horse and attempted to take flight with it, kills the trainer and then dies himself in tragic circumstances trying to escape from a burning building."

"An unlikely scenario."

"The best I can muster under the circumstances. You should not have tried to run, Mr Holmes. We had some explaining to do. We told them you were Milton's lunatic offspring, determined to ruin his father by dint of some insane reasoning. I explained I had to shoot the horse to save the lives of others. There was no knowing what infamy you might have perpetrated had you been allowed to escape. Oh, they were very sympathetic. The local lord of the manor is a racing man. He let us have use of these stalls here on his estate to stable the horses overnight while we made arrangements for your removal to an asylum."

"And you intend to repay that kindness by burning them down."

"Yes," Clarence stated, in a manner that suggested it would not test his conscience in the slightest. "Unbeknown to us, your father comes to reason with you one last time before you begin your life of confinement on the morrow. As his reward, you shoot him dead."

"Where did I get the gun?"

Clarence threw the revolver on the floor at my feet. "It was Milton's. He carried it for protection. He feared you, remember. You wrestle it away from him. In the struggle, he dies and the lantern is knocked over. With all this straw, the barn goes up like a tinder box. You die in the fire."

He made a show of brushing the dust from his hands. "Another problem solved."

"It also has the advantage that Milton will never be able to confirm or deny the charges laid against him."

He was rummaging in his bag again and would offer only a grunt in reply. When he turned back to me, he was holding a syringe filled with a milky-white solution.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked.

"It appears to be the same liquid that was in the bottle I took."

"Indeed. But do you know _what_ it is?"

"Enlighten me."

"Power, Mr Holmes. With this, a man could rule the world. An army could march forever. Men would be forever in your debt. You saw what it did for Vigor."

"It made him a hopeless addict."

Clarence laughed. "You talk to me of that, a self-confessed opium-eater?"

"You were giving it to the horses to improve their performance. Is it morphine?"

"No, although it shares a similarly humble origin. A South American leaf, so they tell. They've been adding it to Vin Mariani for years, but recently certain people have been looking at other uses. In a few years' time, it will be known the world over, but for now we have the monopoly."

He depressed the plunger, expelling the air and a thin stream of liquid.

"This was the dosage they gave Goliath," said he with interest. "I'm afraid it will prove fatal, Mr Holmes. I'm going to spare you the agony of watching your flesh burn. I shall not be so merciful to your cousin. Judas was the most contemptible of men."

He advanced. By the stall door, Palmer let out a cry.

"It won't work."

Clarence hesitated. "What?"

"Vigor told me he used to have to take laudanum to counter the effects. It won't work on him."

It was a plausible lie, good enough to give the assassin pause. Palmer had admitted he had no knowledge of Vigor's habits. It was a gamble to assume that neither did Clarence. For all the training acquired at his father's knee, this simple assertion had unnerved him.

In years to come, Palmer's claim would be met with ridicule. For the present, however, that uncertainty worked in my favour.

"Very good, Danny," said Clarence, laying down the syringe. "I can see that you're a clever lad. You've saved me a great deal of trouble. As for you, Mr Holmes, I can't take the chance that you'll raise the alarm when we leave. Do you know what the criminal underclass mean by 'locusing'?"

"Putting a man to sleep by means of chloroform."

"And 'bellowsing'?" he asked lightly.

"Murder."

Clarence chuckled. "You have mixed with odd folk, Mr Holmes. Yes, quite right. That's what we're going to do here, Danny, 'locusing' and 'bellowsing'. Now you understand that, young man, do you know what that makes you? An accomplice."

Palmer swallowed hard. "I haven't done nothing."

"No, but you have knowledge of a serious crime."

Clarence continued as he drew a bottle of chloroform and wad of linen from his bag.

"I wasn't sure about you, Danny, you see. I couldn't take the chance that you and Mr Holmes here had made a bargain in that horse wagon. You said he'd overpowered you, but you never know, do you? I thought you might go running off to the police. But you won't do that now, will you, Danny? Being an accomplice to murder is as bad as doing the actual deed. They'd hang you. And then you'll never be a champion jockey. All you have to do is keep your mouth shut, Danny, and tell the police you knew nothing about Mr Milton's activities. After all, what would a stable lad know?"

He slopped the liquid liberally onto the cloth.

"Come here, Danny."

The boy took several uncertain steps towards him.

"I want you to hold this over Mr Holmes' nose and mouth."

Palmer's eyes grew wide. He looked stricken.

"Come now, it's easy," said Clarence, pulling the boy behind me.

The material with its sickly-sweet scent was clapped across my face, held in place by a larger hand pressing down on a smaller one.

"That's right, Danny. Don't you mind him struggling. He can't escape. It'll all be over in a minute. Then you can go back to the inn and I'll turn Artemis out in the field. No, I'm going to have to kill Catherine the Great, I'm afraid, and the others too. Good boy, Danny, you be brave. It's for the best. Even Mr Holmes agrees, don't you?"

But I was too far gone to care.

* * *

_So here we are, at the place where the prologue began._

_Onwards to Chapter 20 for the escape from the burning barn and the flight from a murderer!_


	21. Chapter 20

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Twenty: Escape**

By what good fortune I awoke before the fire engulfed me, I cannot say.

When I did open my eyes, it was to find myself pinned to the stable floor, my legs trapped beneath the still warm body of Catherine the Great. The animal's throat had been cut, and a lake of blood had spread through the thin layer of straw, matting hide and hair and clothes wherever it touched.

Clarence – if that was his name, which I doubted – had kept his word, both about my fate and that of the horse.

The thin tendrils of smoke wafting down to me told me that the fire had been set. From the back of the barn came the hiss and crackle of burning straw. Trapped animals, locked in their stalls, were whinnying and thudding their hooves against doors and walls in a vain attempt at escape. Shifting grey clouds increasingly blotted out the moonlight, leaving only an ominous red glow creeping out to consume all, straw or flesh, dead or alive.

The prospect of death, it has been said, sharpens the mind like no other. If I were to survive this night, it would be by my own ingenuity. No help was coming. I had to extract myself from this burning building – or die trying.

They had left me at a peculiar ankle, half on my side, with one leg pressed against the other. In such position, I could do little. I had to turn onto my front. It took effort, perseverance and gritted teeth before I felt my legs begin to shift. My injured ankle kept up a steady protest, and the grinding of one leg against the other did nothing to diminish its nagging pain. Finally prone, I scrabbled for a hand-hold with my one good hand. My nails bit into a gap in the cobbles and I pulled.

Nothing happened. I heaved again, only to feel my nails chip and break and slip across the bloody stones.

To have given up would have been the easiest thing in the world. The smoke would overcome me, as it was claiming the horses nearest to the blaze, long before the fire turned my flesh to ash. My remains would be shovelled up and thrown into a pauper's grave under an assumed name. Mycroft, and Clarence and all the others for whom I had been an inconvenience would be pleased. They would consider my death a job well done and move on to their next insidious scheme.

That thought, more than toying with any slim notions of hope, spurred me on.

With renewed determination, I took a firm hold with my right hand and planted my left elbow in the crack of a broken cobble. I pulled with all my might, trying to ignore the lessening squeals of terrified horses as one voice after another was silenced by the flames. I was panting from the effort and choking, but finally I felt my legs shift. Encouraged, I took up the slack and tried again. I kept going until finally my feet emerged from beneath the carcass.

Using the door to pull myself upright, I clung to it as I pushed my hand through the bars and felt for the bolt. The door slid back and for a moment I could not tell which was the way to freedom, so thick now was the smoke. As my eyes adjusted, I saw an angry crimson glow to my right. Pulling my coat up over my nose and mouth, I took a tentative step towards the double doors.

My ankle, abused by falls and punishments alike, buckled. I grabbed at the closest wall, supporting myself before I fell. Another step, and the pain was as fierce as ever. I tried again, growing used to the intolerable ache and better able to control it. As I edged my way towards salvation, I threw open stable doors as I passed. The occupants, wide-eyed and flaring of nostril, cowered away from me, and it was only when I pulled back the barn doors that the first nervous prisoner took the opportunity to gallop to freedom.

I staggered out into the night, half-suffocated, my eyes streaming with tears. Through the haze, I saw a figure coming towards me at a run. I fancied for a moment that it was Clarence, returning to see that the deed was done. I had visions of being thrown back into the inferno. Only when he drew closer did I recognise the familiar features of Inspector Lestrade.

"Mr Holmes, thank the high heavens," said Lestrade, forestalling my collapse by lowering me to the ground. "When I didn't hear from you, I expected the worst, so I came looking." His expression changed as he took in my appearance. "Who did this to you? Vigor?"

I tried to talk, but my voice would not come.

Then from the darkness came Danny Palmer, his young face glowing from the light of the fire, throwing his panic-stricken features into stark relief.

"Where's Artemis?" he cried. "She's not in the field!"

Before we could stop him, he ran headlong into the blazing building.

"Come back, you fool!" yelled Lestrade.

The boy did not turn. Lestrade jumped to his feet and headed after him, shrugging off my feeble effort to restrain him. As both vanished into smoke and flame, I heard the barn let out a fearful death rattle. Flames were licking the roof and reaching for the heavens through broken windows.

Suddenly a horse broke free from the inferno's heart and ran at full gallop, tail and mane smoking where the fire had tried to claim another victim. Shielding my eyes from the heat, I stared into the blaze and finally saw Lestrade making his way out, Palmer's arm around his shoulder.

They were a few feet from safety. Then, as I watched, the barn gave one last groan. The roof sagged and came crashing down in a mass of sparks and broken timbers. When the dust settled, Lestrade and Palmer had vanished from sight.

I heaved myself up, tore away my sleeve and wrapped it around my face, and then staggered back towards the building. The heat was searing, like as one imagines might the heart of a sun. Fire lapped around the door, throwing sparks at my clothes. Fortunately, I did not have far to go. Just inside, beneath the mound of smoking timbers, I saw the smouldering figure of Lestrade, trying frantically to free his trapped leg.

I grabbed the beam, lifting it just enough for him to pull his limb free. He rolled onto his front, tried to stand and collapsed. The cause was obvious. His foot hung at an unnatural angle, and the grimace on his face told of his pain.

I put my arm around his shoulder, and, half-supporting him, half-carrying him, we limped out of the inferno. I released him when we were at a safe distance, and, coughing and choking, he fell to the ground.

"The boy," he groaned. "He was right there beside me."

I had no reason to believe he was alive. A wiser man would have been content with the one life saved than take the chance of risking his own to seek out another. Every instinct told me not to go back, and yet I did. Danny Palmer had saved my life with the falsehood he had told Clarence, and I owed it to him to try to save his.

The closer I got, so great was the heat, I could have sworn my skin was on fire. Deep in the heart of the blaze, the building was collapsing in on itself, great plumes of light blinding to the eye as they soared against the dark of the sky. The mound by the door was on fire now, and the swelling temperatures almost beat me back. But for the outstretched hand I saw I would have turned back. As it was, I tightened the cloth about my nose and mouth and headed inside.

He lay on his back, half-buried under a blazing pile of timbers. His eyes were closed and his face was grimy and streaked with blood. The wood was no great weight, and I was able to grasp him under the arms and pull him free. As his body emerged, I saw the red stain on his shirt and the jagged protrusion from his abdomen where a broken shaft had speared him.

I dragged him clear, finally lowering him to the ground when I reached Lestrade. I saw the look in his eyes when he took in the boy's condition, and the almost imperceptible shake of his head to confirm what we both knew.

Then with a pained cough, Palmer shuddered and opened his eyes. "Artemis," he murmured, staring up at me. "He lied to me. There was no horse in the field. Is she safe?"

"Be still now," I said. "You've been hurt."

As if only now registering what had happened, his face contorted with pain and tears began to cut a clean passage through the soot on his cheeks.

"How bad is it?" he asked, desperately.

It was Lestrade who found his voice first. "Not too bad, son. You just lie there and you'll be all right."

"I'll ride again, won't I?"

His hand grabbed at mine with a strength which I should not have thought him capable.

"Yes, Danny, you will," I said.

He relaxed a little and a smile drifted across his face. "And I'll be champion one day?"

"Yes, Danny, you will."

"I am a good jockey, aren't I, Henry?"

His sad eyes came to rest on me. A trickle of blood escaped the corner of his mouth.

"The best."

The smile twitched and faded. The grip on my hand weakened, and a final wheezing breath escaped him. I sat there, staring at the unseeing eyes for the longest time until Lestrade broke the silence.

"He's gone, Mr Holmes."

I arranged Palmer's arms so that they crossed on his chest, and closed the eyelids.

"We can't stay," I said, rising to my feet. My ankle burned from my exertions and would not take much more. Lestrade needed medical attention. What we needed was a horse.

The problem was finding one. Those we had freed had galloped out into the field, and were too fleet and scared to allow themselves to be caught by a sooty young man with a decided limp. We could try to get away as far as we could on foot, supporting each other. But by now, the village would have been alerted to the fire and people would be on their way. We would not get too far before we were found.

Then, as I was trying to decide on the lesser of the two evils, I heard the snort and whinny of a horse. In the field, at a safe distance, was a dark bay filly, rolling her eyes and pulling hard at the rope that secured her to the railings. Clarence had kept his word, after all.

I untied Artemis, made a rudimentary bridle with the rope and halter, and led her back to where Lestrade lay. He took one look at the horse and shook his head.

"We have no choice," I said. "The men who left me in there will be back at any moment."

"I should have known," he muttered. "You have a natural propensity for getting yourself into trouble."

"Fortunately, I am acquiring an ability for extracting myself from it. Are you coming?"

He grumbled something. I pressed him for his answer.

"I said, I can't ride," he retorted.

"Can't or won't?"

"Both. I never had the opportunity to learn. There's not much call for hunting foxes where I grew up." He glanced up at me. "Leave me. I'll be all right. Anyway, what do you think they're going to do to a Scotland Yard detective?"

"They will want to know what you were doing here."

"Well, I came to see what had happened to you. Not that you were too hard to find. There was talk on the station about some fool making off with a racehorse from one of the train wagons. It had to be you."

"You were correct, Inspector. It was a vain attempt to escape. They know who I am."

"That was careless of you," said Lestrade.

"And since you are here, they will assume that you too are privy to that information."

His gaze was drawn back to the blazing building as the possibilities occurred to him.

"Perhaps you've got a point." He held out a hand and I helped him up. "You first."

I led Artemis over to the gate and hauled myself up. I brought the horse as close to him as I could and again offered my hand.

"I'll sit behind, thank you," said he, grudgingly. "I'm a married man."

With groans, a few choice oaths and my help, he pulled himself upon the horse's back. I expected him to put his arms around my waist, but instead he chose to cling precariously to my shoulders. Suitably, if not comfortably, arranged, I turned the horse's head and urged her out towards the road. Once on the track, I opened the first gate we encountered and pressed her into a canter across the field. As the darkness swallowed us up, from behind us I heard shouts as the expected party of men arrived from the village to investigate the blaze. By then, we were already lost from their sight.

I did not know which way we were heading. Safety, so it seemed to me, lay in a large town with a police station. I kept to the fields where I could, and only when we crested a small rise and I saw a host of lights twinkling like a scattering of stars across the landscape did I dare to take to the road.

Save for the occasional moan and grumble, Lestrade had been mostly quiet during our journey. I knew he was in pain and the jolting stride of the horse had added to his suffering. There was a sense of awkwardness too, a feeling that there was something unresolved between us.

"What is the time?" I asked him.

I felt him scrabble in his pocket for his watch. "It looks to be a little before midnight."

"I trust there will be someone on duty at the local police station?"

"Depends where we are."

I glanced up at the moon. "About eight miles to the north-east of Chatterton Parva, I should say. If I'm right, we are approaching Egham."

"Where's that?"

"Surrey."

"Ah, the Surrey County Constabulary. We had one of theirs join the Yard last year. Hughes his name is. They had a case of rabies last year, so he told me."

"I dare say it has been dealt with by now."

"What I mean to say, Mr Holmes, is that arson and attempted murder might be more than what they're used to dealing with in the provinces."

"More than attempted, Lestrade," I corrected him. I went on to tell him about the death of the trainer at Clarence's hands.

"It sounds like this is a job for the Yard. I'll have to take over." He shifted uncomfortably behind me. "I only hope they've got a doctor on hand. I think my ankle's broken."

"It might not be as bad as that."

"If it is, that'll be the end of me. You can't have a detective who can't walk. I've spent half my life walking on the job. I thought I'd have an easier time of it at the Yard, but I've done more walking since I've been there than when I was on the beat. No, if I'm crippled, I'll be getting my marching orders." He let the thought lie. "But then already you knew that, didn't you, Mr Holmes?"

I could feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. Now, at last, seemed the time for honesty.

"I suspected you had been compromised, Lestrade. You were betting on fixed races, based on information received."

"So that business the other night, all that talk of needing money, that was just to get me to show you where I was getting my tips from?"

I nodded. I knew where this was leading.

"Why didn't you ask me?"

His tone was flat and unaccusatory. That would come later.

"You thought I was crooked, didn't you?"

"I believed you were deceived," I said with care.

"Do you take me for a fool?" said he, his temper flaring. "You thought I was corrupt. You arrogant little sod. When I think what I've done for you."

I had no answer for him. His anger was justified, as I knew it would be when he did find out.

"Stop this horse," he insisted. "I want to get off. I've had enough bumping around over hill and dale."

Obligingly, I halted Artemis. Lestrade slithered off, managing to land on his good foot before grabbing hold of my leg to steady himself.

"How dare you!" he spat up at me. "Sitting in judgement over people like some tin idol, you, who's never done a hard day's work in his life! I saved you in that prison, and this is my thanks."

"You have my gratitude. That is why I gave you the benefit of the doubt when others defamed you."

Anger flashed in his eyes. "Who?"

"Sir Rupert Bradley. Concerns had been raised about your new-found wealth. Bradley was convinced of your corruption."

"Then why wasn't there an official investigation?"

"The C.I.D an ill afford another scandal, let alone one connected with the turf after the last."

"That's true," Lestrade said, sighing. "The public's confidence is already shaken. Without their support, we might as well all go home."

"Conversely, if the charge was groundless, then Bradley judged it was better that you never knew."

Lestrade stared hard at me for the longest time before looking away. "With hindsight, I know how it looks. It didn't start off like that. A few quid here, a few quid there. I should have known it was too good to be true. In my heart, I suppose I did."

"You chose to ignore it."

"I had my family to consider!"

"How will it help them if you are dead?"

He was pale with pain, but I could have sworn that his face became whiter still.

"Bradley spoke of taking action if I found evidence that you were guilty. He had no interest in making your downfall public. You wouldn't be the first to have a 'convenient' accident. It would be easy for them to arrange your death whilst on duty. You die a hero for the cause and cease to be a problem for them: two birds with one stone."

His mouth moved wordlessly as he attempted to put his thoughts into words. "What will you tell them?"

"Nothing," I replied. "You can tell them yourself. If I were you, Inspector, I should say that I had been aware that races were being fixed for some time. The bets you placed were done so in the course of your investigation in an attempt to gain the confidence of your informer and gather prior information about which races were affected. You have been successful, Lestrade. Not only have you brought their activities to an end, but you have managed to secure evidence of how the deception was practised."

"I have?"

I patted Artemis' neck. "This horse ran under the name of Catherine the Great to win the Albert Stakes this afternoon. The hair of the leg has been bleached to make the horse look the same as the other. Only an experienced eye could tell them apart."

"Good heavens," he uttered. "What about that mad jockey, Vigor? I heard things about him. When you didn't turn up like you said you would after the race, I thought he'd done something to you. I thought it was him making the horses win." He stared at the tired filly. "I never imagined it was something like this. I thought they had measures to stop this sort of thing happening."

"In which case, I should interview the Steward who conducted the pre-race inspection. A horse's age can be discerned from the teeth, in which case, the difference between the two should have been apparent, this animal being the elder. And I should arrest a man who works at the course named Samuels. He had been instructed to reveal the deception after the race. I was able, with a little help, to forestall him."

"But why, Mr Holmes?" said Lestrade, aghast. "They had a system that worked."

"They had their eye on a bigger prize. What, I cannot say, save that it would have suited them to have Scotland Yard's attention elsewhere."

"On me, you mean?"

I nodded. "Your recent string of successes has made you ubiquitous, Inspector. Your disgrace at this juncture would have been convenient."

"Well, well," said he, shaking his head. "You never think it's going to happen to you, do you? It was just a few tips, that's all. I'll not deny the money came in handy."

"Nothing is ever free. There are always strings attached."

His eyes narrowed. "So why help me now?"

I shrugged lightly. "You're a married man with seven children."

"And not likely to have any more after that ride, I can tell you." A rueful smile lifted the corners of his mouth. "What is this 'bigger prize'? Do you know?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

He frowned. "There was something about a diamond as big as a hen's egg being presented to Her Majesty by some lord or other. Priceless, so they say."

"Everything has a price, Lestrade. In this case, it was worth the destruction of a man's life." I paused and frowned. "When is this presentation to take place?"

"Monday. I don't know the details. Chief Inspector Matthews was handling it."

It was hard not to make the obvious connection between Miles' return to the country and the possible theft of this diamond. If Clarence kept his word and killed him for his betrayal after the deed had been done, then they would not have the inconvenience of having to pay him. But perhaps that was the plan all along. Had he been sent to the racecourse, on the pretext of payment, knowing that I would be there? Were they testing him? It answered how Clarence had known of his involvement. Either way, I had to warn Miles.

"We have to get to the town and inform the local police," I said. "We have no time to waste. Tomorrow, Vigor's body will be found at the racecourse. He was murdered, but they will say he hanged himself. A note will found, implicating the trainer. Enquiries will be made about those who profited from the race. Your name is bound to come up. Better that you tell Matthews before he finds out from the bookmaker."

"If he believes me," said Lestrade without enthusiasm.

"Matthews is your one loyal supporter. He would not hear a word against you."

Lestrade nodded. "He's a decent bloke, is Matthews. He was stabbed in the leg last year and there's talk of him retiring. We'll be sorry to see him go. He helped me a great deal when I joined Scotland Yard: told me who to talk to, where to get good contacts. Blind Billy was one of his."

"Indeed?"

That was twice in as any minutes that the Chief Inspector's name had come into the conversation as being connected with this business. The sense of uneasiness I was starting to feel had nothing to do with the length of time since my last dose of laudanum.

"Now wait a minute." Lestrade had detected the reticence in my voice. "Matthews is as honest as the day is long."

"As your superior officer, he is ideally placed to implicate you."

"Why?"

"Because you are expendable."

The affront to his dignity was too much to bear. In his anger, he lost his balance and grabbed at my leg as he began to fall. I tried to right myself, too late, for he pulled me down with him. As we landed in the muddy ditch, the horse shied away and, had I not kept a hand on the rope, Artemis would have made her escape.

"Well, this is a pretty pass," said Lestrade, wiping the mud from his palms. "Happy now, are you?"

"Not particularly. It gives me no pleasure to say this, Inspector, but your conduct has been–"

"I know," he interrupted, irritably. "I've been a fool. I can't believe it of Matthews, though. What proof do you have?"

"When I spoke to him, he claimed ignorance of your association with Blind Billy. He was also having you followed."

Lestrade fell silent. When next he spoke, the rage had been replaced with quiet resignation. "Well, that's it then, isn't it? Who's going to believe me now?"

"Gregson. Tell him to go over Matthew's head to the Superintendant."

"Gregson hates me. He'll be overjoyed to hear the news."

"Not if you present him with an opportunity to regain his former position as inspector."

"At my expense?"

"Such is the price of folly."

Lestrade stared hard at me before looking away. "I dare say you're right. Better than throwing myself on Bradley's mercy. What a mess."

A fresh carried the sound of church bells from the town counting out the hour of midnight. I let the chimes die away, and reflected that though Friday might be behind us, the danger was still present.

I hauled myself to my feet with difficulty. Lestrade watched me impassively.

"We should go," I urged. "I cannot guarantee that we have not been followed."

"You're safe enough. They'll think you died in the fire."

"Not when they find Danny Palmer."

Misguided sentiment had caused me to leave the boy in a state of respectful repose. It was a mistake which would alert them that someone else had been there. That this person had then fled before raising the alarm could only point to me. I did not doubt that Clarence would be eager to finish what he had started.

I pulled Lestrade to his feet and helped him up onto the horse. With the assistance of a nearby stile, I joined him, taking the front position again, and we continued our journey towards the town.

"Horses," Lestrade muttered. "They'll be the death of me. This one, especially."

"How much did you win on the race?"

"£500."

I caught my breath.

"Don't worry, Mr Holmes. I'll give it to the Police Widows and Orphans. It might as well do someone some good. The funny thing is though–"

"I fail to see any humour in the situation."

"No, you'll laugh at this. I had another winner, fair and square, on Thursday. Isonomy in the Gold Cup. I put ten shillings on him for my father-in-law. He'll be wanting his winnings. The wife'll be wondering where I am too. I told her I'd be home for dinner. I'm not meant to be working today either."

"We all have plans, Inspector. I am supposed to be attending a wedding in ten hours' time."

"Whose?" asked Lestrade unenthusiastically.

"My brother's."

A laugh escaped him. "Well, I never. I can't see you making it back in time. He'll be sorry to miss you."

"I doubt that. There will be no marriage. The bride has fled to join her former fiancé. As for Mycroft..." I stared at my trembling hands. "Well, Inspector, I rather believe he has been trying to kill me. You should know this in case he is successful in his attempt."

"That's a serious charge, Mr Holmes. Do you have proof?"

"Let us say that I was not taking laudanum of my own volition."

"How long has it been?" said Lestrade, following the direction of my gaze.

"Too long."

"I see. If you don't mind me asking, why would he want to kill you? Not that I blame him. Knowing how you behave, I've been tempted myself a few times."

His dismissive manner told me that he did not place much weight on my accusation. No doubt he thought I was making excuses to cover my own failings or, worse, deceived by opium-induced delusions.

"I haven't asked him," I admitted.

"Then if I were you, I should, Mr Holmes, and right away."

He was correct, of course. I had hidden away in Suffolk rather than tackle my brother. Now I was about to resurface in dramatic fashion. When this business was resolved, I would have to confront him. It was not a prospect that I relished.

"I could ask, Mr Holmes," Lestrade continued, "how you knew about the bride's absence?"

"I may have provided the bride's sister with information regarding the fiancé's sudden change of heart."

The Inspector shook his head. "No wonder your brother wants you dead. I was right the first time. You are an arrogant little sod."

* * *

_**So they escaped the fire, but are they safe?**_

_**Continued in Chapter Twenty-One!**_


	22. Chapter 21

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Twenty-One: The Smiler With The Knife**

The bells were tolling the half hour by the time we found the police station. The town had been largely deserted, save for a night-soil man on his rounds and several drunken revellers sleeping off the effects of an evening celebrating their race-winning in doorways. We had to travel the length of the High Street before we found the station, a two-storey, red brick building surrounded by a low wall that enclosed a garden with straggling roses. I tied Artemis to the nearest lamp-post, helped Lestrade down, and then with his arm around my shoulder, we limped up to the door with its prominent blue lantern above, and let ourselves in.

The interior was gloomy at this late hour, and the gaslight did little to illuminate the dark wood interior. A strong smell of wood polish mingled with even stronger tobacco, overlaying a faint odour of carbolic. It was tidy, clean and neat, much like the bovine sergeant who stood at the main desk, his mug of tea and sandwiches at hand and a copy of the local newspaper spread out before him. A well-made man of perhaps forty, he stood head and shoulders above the regulation five foot eight, and had that quality of combining great strength with gentleness, like a blue-clad Shire horse.

He looked up when we entered, and the warmth of his smile slipped slightly when he took in our appearance. Both smeared with grime and soot from the fire and mud from the ditch, smelling faintly scorched, and my clothes and shirt stained with old blood, our appearance did not inspire confidence. If anything, we looked like ruffians rather than the official and the private detective which we were.

I could have hoped too that Lestrade would approach the sergeant with less than his usual belligerence. No sooner had I released him and he was able to support his weight against the desk than he set about the task with haughty relish.

"You, Sergeant," said he. "I'm Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

The sergeant gave him a slow inspection. From his expression, I gathered he would rather have been at home than having to deal with what he considered 'undesirables'.

"Is that right, sir?" said he carefully.

"Who's in charge here?"

"I am."

"No, Sergeant, who's your superior?"

"That would be Inspector Bowles, sir."

"I want to see him," Lestrade insisted.

"Well, I'm afraid he's not available. Why don't you tell me what the problem is, perhaps I can help."

"I doubt that, Sergeant. This is more serious than an outbreak of scrumping and sheep worrying. Where is this Bowles?"

"Gone, sir. His shift ended two-and-a-half hours ago."

"Then you'd better go and get him, Sergeant. Tell him this is a serious business and I'll be taking over."

The sergeant took a long draught of tea and placed the mug back down. His smile was serene and just a little condescending.

"I'm sure it is, sir. You and this gentleman certainly look like you've been in the wars. Now, why don't you tell me all about it?"

"And why don't you do as you're told?" Lestrade snapped back. "I don't care to be humoured by some provincial bumpkin."

The sergeant's expression abruptly changed. "There's no call to be taking that tone, sir. I'm sure I was only trying to help."

"I'm sure you were." Lestrade glanced at me and raised his eyes to the heavens. "Saints preserve us from country constabulary. Nothing more than straw between their ears, I'll be bound. Now, Sergeant, where does this Inspector Bowles live? If you won't rouse him, I shall. I'm assuming he is at home. Who knows what they get up to in these out-of-the-way places? I wouldn't be surprised if he was up on the common sacrificing virgins."

"Lestrade," I muttered, seeing the cold look of fury come into the sergeant's eye. "Perhaps a more conciliatory approach might help."

"It's all right, Mr Holmes. I know how to handle these local types. You have to show them you mean business. Now," said he, thumping his fist on the desk, "where's Bowles?"

The sergeant was rigid. "He'll be home with his good lady. Wednesday is his night for sacrificing virgins – you should be all right, as long as you're gone by then."

It was Lestrade's turn to look infuriated.

"Before we go anything further, sir, supposing you prove to me that you are who you say you are," said the sergeant. His gaze fell on me. "What about you, sir? I suppose you're the Chief Constable?"

"Don't worry about him, Sergeant," said Lestrade. "He's with me. I'll vouch for him."

"With respect, sir, you can't vouch for yourself."

"All you have do to is send a wire to Scotland Yard–"

The sergeant chuckled. "Do you know that time is it? The Post Office is closed. Mrs Hamilton is always in her bed at nine o'clock. An hour before midnight is worth two after, that's what she always says."

"This is an emergency!" Lestrade insisted.

"Ah, well," said the sergeant, pausing to take a bite from his cheese sandwich, "here, in the sticks, we don't know about nothing them fancy London ways of yours. My, there's some days I don't know if my head's screwed on right!"

"That I can believe."

"He was being facetious," I said.

Lestrade glared at me. "I know, Mr Holmes. I deal with this fellow. You'll have to take my word for it, Sergeant. There's been arson and murder tonight, and I'll be taking charge."

The sergeant put down his sandwich decisively. "That's different. An actual crime, you say." He pulled out his notebook and licked the end of his pencil. "Now, where did this crime occur?"

"Chatterton Parva," I told him. "A barn was set alight. You'll find the remains of a racehorse trainer in the ruins, a man by the name of Milton. An apprentice jockey also died, trying to rescue the horses."

"And how do you know this, Mr–?"

"Sherlock Holmes. I know it because I was there."

"And you fled the scene?"

"I had good reason. I was left in the barn to die when the fire was set."

The sergeant stared hard at me. "By whom?"

"Milton's associates. He was fixing racing by running ringers."

His eyebrows rose. "Arson, murder and turf fraud. My word, you gentlemen have had a busy night. Now, these fixed races," he asked. "They wouldn't have taken place at Ascot, by any chance?"

"Yes, the Albert Stakes. I have the horse he used as a substitute outside."

"Well, well, I'll be blowed. I drew Catherine the Great in the station's sweepstake. Inspector Bowles wasn't best pleased. His horse came in last." He drew himself up to his full height. "It seems to me that I'll have to make some further enquiries."

"You need to get your Inspector here now," said Lestrade. "I'll be in charge of the investigation."

The sergeant regarded him seriously. "I'm not sure I can do that, sir. See it from my point of view. You come in here, telling me you're from Scotland Yard and making a whole string of accusations. This young man tells me he's been in a fire – and I can believe that by looking at him – and he tells me he's got a racehorse outside that don't belong to him. Horse thieving is a serious offence around these parts."

"Now wait a minute," said Lestrade.

"As is impersonating a police officer. Bert!"

At his call, another man appeared from a back room, a pork pie clenched between his teeth and pastry crumbs down the front of his uniform.

"Take these gentlemen into custody, constable. There's something funny going on here and I mean to get to the bottom of it."

The obliging Bert put down his dinner and stepped forward.

"Sergeant, wait," I said. "The men who left me in that barn will be looking for me. I'd rather you wait until you confirm the Inspector's identity before making enquiries. I would prefer they were not alerted to my location."

"He talks fancy, don't he?" said the sergeant to his comrade. "Now, don't you worry, sir. If what you say is true, you'll be quite safe here in the cells. This is a police station, after all. Bert, lock them both up!"

I thought of running. I would have to abandon Lestrade, but I was the one in danger. I left it too late, however, for before I could make my move, the constable had grabbed my arm and forced it halfway up my back. I was hauled away into the recesses of the police station and, after a cursory examination of my pockets, was pushed into a cramped cell that had no light and little ventilation. The stench of alcohol and effluent was stifling, and seemed to emanate from the other occupant of the room, a tramp by the look of his tattered clothing, sleeping off a night of immoderate drinking on the only bench.

"That's only old Harry," said the constable brightly. "We're a bit tight on space tonight, so you'll have to share. He won't hurt you. Mind you, if does come over a bit friendly, best you tell him who you are sooner rather than later. It's been a long time since he's seen a woman."

The door slammed and keys rattled. I was plunged into darkness. From outside, I could hear a commotion as the exercise was repeated with Lestrade. Between the stentorian snores of my companion, I heard the sergeant mention something about sending for a doctor. At least Lestrade would have attention for his ankle.

This was not the outcome for which I had hoped. Lestrade could have been less offensive and the sergeant less officious. As it was, the trite phrase about frying pans and fire came to mind. If the sergeant made enquiries, the good people of Chatterton Parva, backed up by Bailey and Williams, would tell him of the disturbed young man who galloped a horse out of a train wagon. They would tell him too that I was Milton's alleged son, with a grievance against my father. The finger of blame for the fire and the trainer's death would be pointed at me. The sergeant would tell them where I was, and long before Lestrade's story could be verified, Clarence would come to finish me off.

I had a long night ahead, not made any more bearable by the time that had passed since my last dose of laudanum. It was beginning to take its toll. I was shivering and sweating at the same time, and, far from being the precise mechanism of logic and deductive reasoning that was the tool of my trade, my mind was wandering far afield, always coming back to the object of my longing.

I was given something else to think about when half an hour later I heard voices in the corridor outside. Somewhere door was unlocked, and before long I caught several strangled cries as the doctor set about his work. Then silence, and later muffled voices came again before the keys jangled in the lock and my door was opened. A tall, spare man with a clean-shaven face and grey hair stood framed in the rectangle of light. The bag in his hand left me in no doubt about his profession.

"The gentleman next door tells me you are a devotee of the poppy. Is this correct?"

I nodded.

"Further, he tells me that you are in need."

Again, I nodded.

The doctor frowned. "I disapprove. Your friend refused it, despite his own injuries. Something to do with his mother."

"Is he badly hurt?" I asked.

"The ankle was dislocated rather than broken. What of you? What happened to your hand?"

He entered the cell for a closer inspection. The constable lingered on the threshold holding a lantern aloft. I did not object when the doctor splinted my three fingers and bandaged my hand, nor when he took the laudanum bottle from his bag. He shook his head when I told him how much I needed, but dispensed the dose nevertheless. I took it down gratefully and began to feel the effects almost immediately. The door slammed shut again and darkness returned to the tiny cell. On the bench, Harry muttered something in his sleep and went back to snoring loudly. There was little else I could do, and so I settled myself down in the corner.

I must have dozed for several hours for I was aware that time had passed, but not how much. The keys were rattling in the lock again, and I forced myself upright, feeling stiff and sore. The door opened and light filled the confines of the cell. It was almost blinding after the pitch black, and I had to squint to make out the figure behind the lantern. As my eyes slowly adjusted, I caught a glimpse of blond hair and perfect white teeth in a smiling mouth.

I reeled back, horrified that I had been discovered so quickly. I shouted for the constable, but instead the figure stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

"Well, Mr Sherlock Holmes," said Clarence. "We meet again. You've led us quite the merry dance this evening. How did you escape that fire, I wonder? Was it the boy? I was never sure about him."

"How did you get in here?" I demanded. "Where's the constable?"

"Resting. I slipped something in his tea while I was making enquiries about a lost racehorse. I don't have much time. I'll be gone before he wakes. And so shall you."

So saying, he put his lantern down on the floor, still smiling.

"This reminds me of that old rhyme," said he. "'Here comes a lantern to light you to bed. And here comes a chopper to chop off your head.'"

The light gave the long blade of a knife he had drawn from his inside pocket a golden glow.

Instinctively, I backed away. It was rank foolishness, for I had nowhere to go. I collided with the bench and half fell onto the sleeping Harry, who grumbled and pushed me away. I ended up with my back against the wall and Clarence barely a foot away. When he came for me, I grabbed his knife hand and used my left arm to try to hold him at bay.

A week of cleaning stables and riding horses had gone some way to restoring my strength. Weakened by kicks and beatings, however, it did not take Clarence long before he was overwhelming me. He forced me down until my knees buckled and I fell onto my back. He was on top of me in a second, straddling my body and using his advantage to press down the knife towards my throat.

"Give up," he urged, grinning down at my poor struggles against a battle I was losing by degrees. "You won't win."

He pushed down with all his weight. I felt the knife blade at my throat. Just at that moment, Harry coughed and let out a foul oath. Clarence faltered and glanced across at him. In that split second, I managed to deflect the knife and turn it. The blade took the skin from my wrist as I brought my elbow up to protect myself. Unbalanced, Clarence put a hand out to support himself, missed and fell straight down on top of me.

I saw the look of surprise in his wide, staring eyes as the knife drove upwards into his throat.

I lay there, panting, pinned down by his dead weight, aware of the warm, wet sensation spreading from his body. When finally I pushed him off, I noticed that he had died without a smile on his lips. Instead his features were stricken, the expression of a coward who fears to face the death he had meted out to his unfortunate victims without giving them a second thought.

I left him there, keeping the still sleeping Harry for company, took the keys from the door and unlocked Lestrade's cell. He sat up, and his mouth fell open as he took in my blood-soaked clothing.

"What happened now?" he demanded.

"It's over," I said wearily. "The Smiler is dead."

* * *

_**Well, Mr Holmes may think it's over, but there's still brother Mycroft to face. Whatever you do, don't miss the next chapter! You will not believe what's about to happen…**_

_**Continued in Chapter Twenty-Two!**_


	23. Chapter 22

_Ladies and Gentlemen, it's the chapter you've all been waiting for. Mycroft, why have you been poisoning your little brother?_

* * *

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Twenty-Two: Death on a Pale Horse**

To say that it was a tangled affair was an understatement.

By the time I managed to wake the drugged constable, the sergeant had returned from making his enquiries at Chatterton Parva. A dead man in the cells and an allegation of attempted murder was finally enough to have him send for Inspector Bowles. Mrs Harrison was roused from her bed and the telegraph pressed into use. With confirmation of his identity, Lestrade came into his own and revelled in his superiority. The only cloud on his horizon was having to send for Gregson. It rankled with him, more than a dislocated ankle and a night in the cells of Egham police station.

As for myself, I felt nothing. I had no qualms about the death of the Smiler or Clarence, if that had been his real name, which I doubted. My actions had been in self-defence. It was to trouble my conscience very little.

With Lestrade in charge, arrests were swiftly made. Bailey and Williams, confident that their ignorance of Clarence's involvement with the fire would save them, soon found themselves in custody. My evidence had seen to that, but greater still was the weight of Lestrade's word, when he revealed that he had been investigating the activities of the stable all along. I said nothing, and let him bask in the glory.

What no one could explain was the presence of Clarence. Fearful now of prosecution, Bailey had asserted that he, along with Milton, had only been following orders, sent down from high by someone he knew only as the 'Professor'. The country constabulary were having none of it. As far as they were concerned, Bailey was attempting to pass the blame. Inspector Bowles came up with the theory that Bailey had had his eye on the trainer's job all along, and had hired Clarence to do his dirty work.

We decided not to rob them of their muddle-headed notions. For the time being, it suited our purpose while Lestrade attempted to gain an ally. I had advised him not to admit that he had known nothing of the plot against him. As much as I trusted in Gregson's integrity, it is never wise to place oneself wholly in another's power. Through gritted teeth, Lestrade had told his rival of the fraud and the clandestine investigation he had been conducting. I could tell from Gregson's narrowed eyes that he did not believe him. The occasional glances he shot in my direction told too who he thought had done the lion's share of the work.

For a while, I was not convinced that he was prepared to help. The mere fact that Lestrade was seeking his help now whilst facing possible criminal charges himself had roused his suspicions, to say nothing of his scepticism when the finger of blame was pointed at Chief Inspector Matthews. What swayed him was his realisation that, without him, Lestrade would have a hard time proving his case.

As much as it would have pleased him to see the man fall from grace, the thought of regaining his former position was more appealing. It gave Gregson the upper hand in bargaining, and meant that when he stated he wanted equal credit, Lestrade was in no position to refuse. I thought the Inspector's jaw would surely crack when he forced out his few words of acceptance.

What they had, however, was a united front. It had been a marriage of convenience, they now said, because they had not known whom to trust. Gregson had known all along of Lestrade's deception, he was happy to admit, and they had joined forces to root out the canker at Scotland Yard. A senior officer had attempted to implicate one of his men to deflect suspicion from his own nefarious activities. Lestrade had been willing to put himself in the firing line to investigate the Chief Inspector's corruption. On their word, a warrant was issued for Matthews. By the time it reached headquarters on Saturday evening, he was already gone.

Better yet, their alliance meant that I had someone to vouch for me. The villagers at Chatterton Parva had insisted that I was insane, as I knew they would, and it was a tale which gained intensity with everyone questioned. They had heard me swear vengeance against my father, so one said. Another claimed I had said I would see Milton burn. Gregson was prepared to back Lestrade up in stating my real identity, although I suspected that the debt for this service would be more than the ten pounds I still owed him.

Then there was the question over the dead man in my cell. The constable remembered Clarence and his enquiries. He also remembered feeling sleepy and then nothing else until I had woken him up, covered in blood. Old Harry had slept through the drama, so they had only my word for what had occurred in the cell. Bailey was eager to admit that he had passed on word to the assassin when the sergeant had arrived from Egham wanting to know about the fire and the young man who had reported it. If he was hoping for leniency, he was disappointed. As for me, the police had to be content with inconveniencing me for as long as possible before taking my statement and releasing me on the understanding I was to make myself available for further questioning if necessary.

So it was that Monday afternoon found me on a London-bound train, wearing respectable country fashions and coins enough in my pocket for dinner and a copy of _The Times_. My own clothes had been ruined beyond repair, and I had consigned them to the fire. With the shabby tweeds, I laid to rest the ghost of Henry Holmes. As my identity was known, from now on, I could only be myself, the occasional disguise permitting. Henry, like the unfortunate Danny Palmer, was dead.

With him I buried too the lingering sense of failure that had dogged my heels of late. I had exonerated Lestrade. I had uncovered a racing fraud. I had turned the tables on a murderer and had given Mosteyn Jones justice. And I had done all this while managing a burdensome addiction that gave me no rest.

It was affirmation and vindication. I should have been elated, except for the knowledge that Mycroft waited. With the case at an end, it was a problem I could defer no longer.

Another of my questions was answered by the front page of the newspaper. Dominating the headlines was the news that a rare pink diamond intended for the Queen had been stolen from the vault of Fellowes Bank in the City on Saturday. Miles clearly had not heeded the warning I had sent informing him that The Smiler had known of his role in the affair. The paper further laid the blame squarely on the shoulders of Scotland Yard and the Chief Inspector who had been overseeing the diamond's safe delivery. Matthews, it said, had declined to comment.

No doubt it was for the best. With Matthews gone, they had their scapegoat. Equally, Milton would take the blame for the running of ringers. Clarence would be dismissed as a business partner with a grudge. No one would lend much credence to tales of villainous university men and their hired assassins. The Professor may have won this round, but there would be other days.

I told myself this on the tortuous journey home by rail and cab. After a week or more of sleeping on the floor and straw bales, I was looking forward to the luxury of a bed and a mattress. With this in mind, I let myself in and trudged up the stairs to my room, nodding a greeting to Mrs Bulstrode, who emerged from her kitchen to note my return.

I unlocked my door and entered, feeling a weariness that threatened to fell me in my tracks. As tired as I was, my instincts alerted me that all was not well. The room was in darkness and had been unaired, yet there was the merest smell of expensive Turkish tobacco. I was about to retreat when a shape detached itself from the mass of the armchair and headed for the fireplace. An arm reached for the gaslight and, as the room illuminated, I recognised Colonel Ambrose Malpas.

"Good evening, Mr Holmes," said he. "Won't you come in? I've been expecting you."

"If my brother sent you, then you've had a wasted journey."

I gestured to the open door, indicating that he should leave. He responded by lighting a cigarette.

"You should hear what I have to say first," said Malpas. "Then if you still want me to leave, I shall. Is that fair?"

Grudgingly, I closed the door. "Not particularly. Say your piece and leave."

"Very well." A long trail of smoke left his lips as he took a moment to marshal his thoughts. "Do you know who I am?"

"You work with my brother. He said you were an advisor of sorts."

He smiled behind the cigarette. "No one works with your brother. He has a unique position. It is my job to protect him."

I stifled a laugh. "You are a bodyguard for Mycroft? I find that hard to believe."

Malpas considered. "Perhaps that is a little inaccurate. You see, my concern is for national safety. My remit is to identify threats and eradicate them before they become a problem. I am known informally as the 'Puppet Master'." A small laugh escaped him. "My subordinates have a rather limited understanding of my function."

"It seems clear enough to me. You pull people's strings."

"Someone has to," said he. "Rather me than a foreign agent. That is where your brother comes in. Mycroft holds a position of immense responsibility. He stands at the cross-roads of lines of information. No one knows more about the dealings of government than Mycroft. That makes him an asset. It also makes him a liability."

He drew deeply on his cigarette before tossing it into the grate.

"If your brother were to fall into the wrong hands, either by design or accident, well, I need hardly tell you the implications. It is my responsibility to see that never happens. I protect his vulnerabilities, and if necessary, find a means of neutralising them."

"Admirable, I dare say. What does that have to do with me?"

Malpas stared hard at me. "You are a vulnerability. I told Mycroft some time ago when you started to make a nuisance of yourself with that affair at the Tankerville Club that he should curb you or cut you loose. He failed to do either."

"He tried," I said, thinking back to the threats of disinheritance Mycroft had made and the myriad ways by which he had attempted to sway me from my chosen profession.

"He could have succeeded, if he so wished," said Malpas. "But he has a weakness where you are concerned. He is apt to be... _indulgent_."

"That is not a word I should have applied to my brother."

"Nevertheless, it stands. That is my observation. While that vulnerability remains, Mycroft stands at risk. Moreover, this government stands at risk. I cannot permit that. I have watched you, Mr Holmes. You are like a child playing hide-and-seek in the dark. You stumble around, meddling and leaving chaos in your wake for other people to tidy away. Your involvement with the business at Postern Prison was the final straw. I told Mycroft then that certain measures would have to be taken."

It is not an exaggeration to say that his words made the hairs rise on the back of my neck. I thought I knew what those measures had been.

"As a concession to his sentimentality, and," he added grudgingly, "an acknowledgement to your own unrefined talents, I suggested that he bring you into the fold. You are not your brother, yet you have certain qualities which would make you _useful_ to us. Even in that, you defied us."

"As you say, I am not my brother."

"No. You are a loose cannon, Mr Holmes, and that makes you dangerous. Look what your current meddling has wrought. A racehorse trainer, dead. Another turf scandal. Chief Inspector Matthews implicated. Who do you think will bear the brunt of your interference?"

"That is not my concern. I was asked to investigate by Sir Rupert Bradley. Allegations had been made against Inspector Lestrade."

"And now once again we are overtaken by infamy."

"I sought the truth."

"Your truth comes at too high a price, sir!" Malpas shot back. "You, of all people, must understand how actions carry consequences. I must see that your brother is protected, from dangers both abroad and at home."

His eye came to rest on the mantelpiece, with its clutter of letters, pipes and oddments. Standing boldly in the middle was a small bottle, filled to the top with the red liquid of laudanum. Malpas took in his hand, caressing it ''twixt finger and thumb, almost lovingly, before slipping out the cork to sniff the contents.

"That is why I come to you with a proposition, Mr Holmes," said he. "You are an intelligent man. You know there can only be one resolution."

He wandered over to the sideboard, found a glass and poured the contents of the bottle into it. Then, adding a quantity of brandy, he swirled the mixture and smiled approvingly.

"A full dose this time, I think," said he, holding the glass up to the light. "I must apologise for my clumsiness the other night at the dinner. I gave you a dose that would have killed any other man. I did not realise you were an opium-eater. My intelligence was faulty."

"We all make mistakes."

Malpas smiled. "I would have preferred that you had died that night with your brother present. Mycroft is apt to be difficult. He needs reminding, on occasion, that his life is not his own. I suppose you know about his fiancée? Yes, of course you do. The American Exchange confirmed that someone had been making enquiries about Mr Cummings. It did not take much imagination to guess that person's identity. Well, it can be rectified. Another bride will be found. But first, I have to deal with you."

He put the glass on the table and pushed it in my direction.

"No," I said.

"Come now, Mr Holmes. You would not be the first. You may remember the death of Lord Graham's youngest son, a dissolute fellow of the first water, given to frequenting certain 'gentleman's' club of ill repute. I educated him about the value of noble sacrifice. It is the most important lesson we can learn, is it not? What one might do for one's family or friends is without bounds."

"Get out."

Malpas held my gaze for what seemed like an eternity, then sighed and shook his head.

"That is your prerogative, of course. However, if when I leave here, you are not dead or dying, then my next call shall be to your brother. I shall not give him a choice. And then I will devote myself to destroying you. I shall see you blamed for your brother's death and then you will end your days degraded, brought lower than the vilest creature in the filthiest London hovel. You will die long before your body succumbs. So, sir, what is your pleasure? Would you have me leave?"

"You cannot force me to do this."

"Granted. I appeal, however, to your reason. The loss of your brother at this juncture would be grievous. His capture or control by a foreign power would be disastrous. Now, tell me, Mr Holmes, who will miss _you_?"

He took up the glass and held it out to me.

"If it is any consolation, I shall see to it that there will be no verdict of suicide. A young man with few prospects and known health problems takes too much laudanum one night and dies. It happens all the time. Your brother will grieve and you shall have a decent plot in a country graveyard, mourned and lamented for what you might have been. How much better than to die in disgrace? The choice is yours."

In truth, it was no choice. At the end of either path lay death, one quick, the other slow and agonising, if I believed – and I did – that Malpas had the power to bring either on my head. I had my answer to what had ailed me the night of the dinner, and to some extent was gratified that I been correct in deciding that Malpas was the culprit. He had put laudanum in my brandy and had feigned disgust at its bitter taste to deceive me into believing that all was well.

I had been wrong, however, in thinking it had been at Mycroft's instigation. I remembered the look on my brother's face when he had found us together. It had been fear, not for what I might have told Malpas, but for what Malpas might have done to me.

I had called Lestrade a fool, but mine was the greater folly. Innate prejudice had blinded me to the possibilities. I was discovering too late that I had done my brother an injustice. Miles' words came back to me, that Mycroft had lost control. Dare I say it, he had been out-manoeuvred. Once Malpas had marked me for elimination, Mycroft had attempted to salvage what he could by preparing me, in my ignorance, for such an eventuality by building up a level of immunity to the drug. Since then, I had been undoing his work by slowly reducing my dependence.

What he could not have anticipated was that Malpas would present me with something from which not even his preparation could spare me. A full bottle of laudanum was certain death. I could have refused, and trusted that I would be able to exonerate myself. But who would believe me?

The evidence would be damning. The landlady could testify that I knew my brother, out of the kindness of his heart for a convalescent, had ordered my food to laced with tincture of opium. I had meddled in his nuptials. Malpas would no doubt be able to produce any number of witnesses to swear that our relationship had been strained. If anyone had motive to kill Mycroft Holmes, it must surely be his younger, wayward brother with the strange occupation and refusal to accept the hand of fraternal benevolence. If they judged me criminally insane, I would not hang, but spend my days rotting in Broadmoor.

I weighed the possibilities.

Unable to stop the slight tremor in my hand, I took the glass. I had one last moment of hesitation, and then drank the contents down in one.

"You have made a wise decision, Mr Holmes," said Malpas, approvingly. "Your country is grateful for the sacrifice you have made this day. England expects, as Nelson once said. Well, you have done your duty, sir, and I shall see that you have your reward, in this world if not the next."

I believed him. Malpas was nothing if not a man of his word.

"Now, I think we should prepare for your departure. I am a tidy man, Mr Holmes. I took the liberty of drawing up your will. You leave everything to your brother. I hope that is satisfactory."

He took the document from his pocket and laid it on the table.

"All you have to do is sign."

I could not fault his preparation. He had even had it witnessed and dated to several months before.

He held out a pen to me. I tried to take it, but my fingers failed to close. He smiled understandingly, picked it up and forced it into my hand. I stood there, knowing I had to do something, but uncertain as to what. Again, Malpas intervened, lowering my hand to the document and urging me to sign my name. What came out was an odd scrawl that looked nothing like my usual signature.

"No matter," said Malpas, sympathetically. "Your witnesses will testify to your poor state of health at the time of signing."

Satisfied, he folded the paper and wandered over to the desk and its litter of books and journals to find a place for it. I watched, willing myself to do something to stop him, but finding the connection between thought, word and deed to be strangely lacking. I was having trouble breathing and my co-ordination had deserted me. In reaching for the back of the chair to support myself, I missed and only managed to stop myself from falling by grabbing at the table. Malpas was at my side in a heartbeat, putting his arms around me and holding me up.

"Steady, Mr Holmes, it's time we got you into bed."

I tried to speak. What came out was a pathetic croak. I was led, as meek as a lamb, over to the bed. Malpas perched me on the edge and started to remove my clothes.

"A dressing gown would be so much more comfortable," said he, taking the garment from its hook on the back of the door. I could offer no resistance as he slipped my arms in and pulled the cord about my waist. "Now, time to go to sleep. That's right, lie yourself down."

He moved around me, adjusting pillows, pulling up blankets, positioning the empty laudanum bottle and glass on the cabinet at my bedside. With the scene set, he sat down on the bed beside me, and then reaching up, he began to push my hair from my eyes and stroke it back into place.

"You remind me of my son, Harold," said he, absently. "He was a year younger than you, with the same dark hair and grey eyes. He always wanted to be a soldier, like his father. I was never prouder than the day he took the Queen's shilling. He fought the Ashanti and came home with honours. Then, one day, he saw a blind man being robbed for the pennies in his tin. When he tried to stop the thieves, They stabbed him and left him there. No one came to help him, Mr Holmes. He died in the gutter, alone. I often wonder, did he call for me and his mother? Did people see and ignore him?"

His eyes had become glassy.

"I am not heartless. No man should have to die alone. I will stay here with you until you go, Mr Holmes. Do not be afraid. They say the wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is life eternal."

He took my hand and squeezed it reassuringly. Weakly, I tried to pull it away, but his grip was the stronger. As he watched me in my struggle for breath and the vain fight against overwhelming fatigue, his expression one of the greatest sadness, and I realised he was no longer seeing me.

"Hush, now, my brave little soldier," said he. "Soon be over. No more pain. What was that song your wet nurse in America used to sing? '_Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, go__ to sleep, my little baby. When you wake, you shall have all the pretty little horses'_. Yes, my precious son, all shall be yours. Sleep now."

And when he closed my eyelids, I could not resist.

* * *

_Did you see that coming?  
_

_Continued in Chapter Twenty-Three!_


	24. Chapter 23

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Twenty-Three: Two-Horse Race**

Consciousness returned with the sound of raised voices. One I knew to be Mycroft; the other was unfamiliar to me. They seemed distant, as though heard through a wall. Moving too seemed difficult, and I had exert all my energies into forcing my fingers to clench.

"Mr Holmes, it has been three days," the other voice was saying. "Your brother is dying. Let him go with good grace and dignity. That was his wish, after all."

"My brother did not attempt suicide, Dr Hilliard," Mycroft replied. "This was an unfortunate accident."

"That, sir, is what they all say. It is what I should claim if I wished a member of my family to be buried in consecrated ground. As it is, what you are asking me to do is tantamount to murder!"

"I merely ask that you continue to treat him, Doctor."

"Have you ever seen anyone die of strychnine poisoning, Mr Holmes? It is an ugly death. In limited doses, it has its place as a stimulant, I grant you. But if I give him any more, he will surely succumb. I can do no more for him. He must either live or die, as the Lord wills. It is out of our hands. Personally, it is my belief that he will die. You should prepare yourself for that eventuality."

"Then how do you account," I heard Mycroft say, "for his hand?"

The doctor muttered an oath. A harsh odour of ammonia invaded my nostrils and someone started to slap my face.

"Come now, Mr Holmes, wake up," said the doctor, continuing his rough treatment. "Rouse yourself, sir!"

It worked, after a fashion. I opened my eyes to find a balding, be-whiskered man of severe countenance standing over me. Mycroft hovered in the background, close enough to make his presence known without having to touch the sickbed. I did not know where I was. The room was sparse, unlike my own cluttered quarters, and the blind was drawn, shrouding my surroundings in gloom.

"Well, Doctor?" said Mycroft.

"He is alive, barely. Mr Holmes, can you understand me?"

My mouth was intolerably dry. By means of small gestures, I managed to communicate both my answer and my needs. A glass of water was brought to my lips and I drank until the contents were drained without pause.

"You are extremely lucky, young man," said the doctor, regarding me critically. "You attempted to take your own life, but by good fortune and a greater Providence, you have been spared."

I shook my head and managed to frame a few words. "I did not."

"You may hide your deeds from us, but the Lord seeth the heart. Do not confound your sin with falsehoods."

"Thank you, Dr Hilliard, that will be sufficient," Mycroft interjected. "The staff here will attend to his needs."

"You should watch him closely," said the doctor, gruffly. "If he does it again – and he shall, mark my words, they always do – he may not be so lucky next time. Remember, sir, the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. He shall decide, not you."

With that, Dr Hilliard packed his bag and left. Mycroft stood watching me from the far side of the room with polite interest, as a bored student does his schoolmaster, making no attempt to help as I struggled to sit up. I was sluggish and my responses slow. I felt as though I had been drained of every last ounce of vitality.

The long silence dragged out. The distance between us was wider than ever and had nothing to do with his refusal to draw near.

"I dare say you have questions," said Mycroft at last.

"No doubt you have had time to prepare your answers," I countered.

"I have had time to reflect, it is true."

"And what is your conclusion?"

Mycroft pursed his lips. "That once again, brother, you have conspired to confound good intentions."

"I have–" The fellow was insufferable. "Do you realise that Malpas tried to kill me?"

"It is gratifying that he failed. One does not like to be thwarted."

"I am glad you see it that way."

Mycroft sighed and pulled up a chair a few feet from where I lay. The gesture was less conciliatory than for his own comfort. I had never known Mycroft to stand where a chair was available nor elevate his feet where a foot stool was at hand. For the time being, I could not decide if his discomfort was the result of the wooden seat or any remorse he felt for his actions.

"You have only yourself to blame for your current condition, Sherlock," said he, archly. "Had you maintained your levels of laudanum, the effects would have been minimised. As it is, you have caused great inconvenience to one and all. This shilly-shallying between life and death over the past few days is typical of your thoughtless regard for other people. Funeral arrangements have been made. A coffin has been ordered. Mrs Bulstrode has bought a new hat for the occasion. She will be most disappointed to hear that you have recovered."

"Convey my apologies."

"You can convey them yourself. You owe the dear lady that much and more, considering she found you before it was too late."

"I was not aware–"

"Clearly," Mycroft interrupted tersely. "Mrs Bulstrode saw Malpas leaving the house. As she had no recollection of admitting him, she feared some sinister motive. She found you, sprawled on the bed insensible. Naturally, she wasted no time in sending for me and a doctor. When I arrived, you were turning blue. They were giving you the Last Rites."

"We are not Catholic, Mycroft."

"No, but Mrs Bulstrode is. She said you needed all the help you could get. An admirable woman, in many respects."

"She is loyal, that is without doubt. She carried out your orders to the letter." I summoned my most reproving look. "You should have told me about Malpas."

"I had considered that possibility," said he. "The truth is, Sherlock, I could not take the chance that you would disbelieve me. You have a habit of not listening to a word I say. Had I told you, I dare say you would have dismissed my concerns out of hand."

"I should not have developed a taste for laudanum on a whim."

"Then you would be dead. Death by laudanum overdose is Malpas' stock-in-trade."

"He said I was not the first. How many others?"

"Five, that I know of." Mycroft seemed curiously detached about it. "I did not want either of our names to feature on his record as number six."

I stared at him.

"Oh, yes, Sherlock," said he. "I too have been taking precautions. To tell you the truth, I am glad the business is over. Taking one hundred drops a day has played merry hell with my constitution."

"Is that the best you could do?"

"Come now, what did you expect? My hands were tied. Malpas can do no wrong in the Prime Minister's eyes. Were you aware he saved him once from the threat of assassination? The man is the very model of respectability. His intelligence is first-rate, although hardly the equal of mine. He has been a loyal servant to this country. Were I to lay such a charge against him, I should have been ridiculed."

Mycroft frowned.

"As for myself, Sydney Carton may have thought it a far, far better thing to die in another man's place, but it is not the natural order of things. I did not presume that you would be prepared to die for me. Indeed, given the parlous state of our own relations of late, I thought you might be glad to be rid of me."

"I thought the same of you," I admitted.

Mycroft nodded. "And yet, here we are."

"_Where_ are we?" I asked, still trying to place the room.

"At the Diogenes. As far as anyone knows, you perished three days ago. I had you brought here where I could keep you under my supervision."

As weak was I was, I could not contain my exasperation. "Mycroft, I was expected to give evidence!"

"If you are referring to the unholy mess you have stirred up involving fixed races, corrupt Chief Inspectors and the man who attacked you in the cell of Egham police station, I have to inform you that the matter is out of your hands. The official line is that the trainer was responsible for the fraud and died in the fire attempting to destroy the evidence by killing the horses and a stable lad who had learned of his activities. The two men who were arrested as accomplices have been released without charge."

"That is disappointing. They were complicit. They could have testified to the involvement of another man known as the 'Professor'."

Mycroft did not look surprised.

"Who is he?" I demanded. "I asked you once before, and you would not tell me."

"Still I must disappoint, Sherlock, for I do not know myself. We are aware of him, but his identity eludes us."

"Even you?"

"Yes, brother, even me. It has been judged better to let the matter rest. A scandal at this point would only cause panic. Can you imagine the uproar if it were known that a criminal mastermind was at work? For the time being, it suits us to let him continue."

"Her Majesty might not agree," I retorted.

"You are referring to the theft of the pink diamond," said Mycroft. "That worked to our advantage. The provenance was dubious. The current owner's father had stolen it from someone, who had stolen it from someone else under bloody circumstances. Better that it is gone than create problems in the future."

"Do you know who took it?" I asked, casually.

Mycroft roiled with displeasure. "It has been noted that a certain cousin of ours was staying at the Langham Hotel. A blind eye was turned to his activities."

"I hope you didn't make it too easy for him. Miles likes a challenge."

"Danger being his drug of choice," said Mycroft. "Which reminds me, Sherlock, I understand you discovered how the trainer was ensuring his horses would win."

"Apart from the ringers, he was giving the horses a drug made from–"

"Cocoa leaves. Oh, you appear surprised. You should know that very little escapes my attention. I have also learned that you obtained a sample." He regarded me seriously. "Where is it? I had your room searched. It was not found."

"I do not have it," I answered truthfully. Lestrade had it still, I assumed. The events following the incident at the police station had conspired to keep us apart in private. After Gregson had arrived, he had clung to the Inspector like a limpet and I had not had a chance to take back the bottle.

"What is your interest in it, Mycroft?"

"Its potential use in warfare concerns us. It is too dangerous to allow any one government to retain control of it. The safest course would be to make it universally known. In that respect, one creates a level playing field. In another, one fears what effect it will have on society at large. Which is the greater evil, I cannot say." His gaze came back to me. "Where is it?"

Mycroft would not resort to physical injury, but I knew he would persist and I was in no state to resist his usual battering.

"It is gone. It was destroyed."

"I have your word on that?"

"If you insist."

He sat back in his chair, seemingly satisfied. "Then we will leave it at that. It is well for you that it was lost. I know the personal element that goes into your experiments. Take care, brother."

"I have seen its effects. It killed a horse and drove a jockey to the brink of insanity."

"The poor fellow who was found hanged at Ascot? It was rumoured he was unstable."

"The man I killed in the cells murdered him."

"The police have decided it was suicide."

I thought of Vigor, of his beating of Danny Palmer, of his attempt to shoot me on the beach, of his desperate pleading with Milton for the drug on that last day. For all that, to deny him decent burial to bury the sins of another seemed to lack a certain justice. But for Malpas' assurances, had I not survived, they might have been saying the same about me.

"When did you know what Malpas intended?" I asked.

Mycroft saw my expression and sobered a little. "He expressed concern about you a while ago. To some extent, I concurred. Since then, I have, in my own inept way, been attempting to control your excesses. This is not the life I had intended for you, Sherlock. I would humour your interests were they not so deleterious to your health. Look at the state of you. Black and blue with bruises. What happened to your hand?"

I glanced at my left hand. Someone had made a good job of re-bandaging it.

"I fell from a horse."

"I trust not in the hunting field," said Mycroft. "You know our mother's feeling on the subject. That fox cub of hers was her dearest companion, vile little creature."

"I seem to recall it bit you."

"Twice," he grimaced. "Do not change the subject. You give yourself airs and graces and call yourself a 'consulting detective', and you plunge headlong into one scrape after another."

"That situation has resolved itself," I reassured him. "My identity is known."

"Capital! Then the experiment is at an end." Mycroft's relief was evident. "Now, there is an opening in the Home Office for–"

"Forgive me, but you can hardly expect me to believe that your vocation is any safer than mine in light of my recent experience. At least I command my own destiny. You have been at the beck and call of this 'Puppet Master'."

"It is as I told you," said Mycroft. "I am bound by a series of checks and balances. The problem is, who oversees the individual in charge of safe-guarding those checks? It has not sat well with me that I have been backed into a corner by Malpas these past months. Wedlock I would have borne as a necessary evil, but the murder of my only brother was a step too far. He became insistent about the danger you represented after your interference at that infernal prison. The laudanum had the dual effect of rendering you unable to pursue your usual activities and protecting you should Malpas attempt to remove you. I sent the most ineffectual doctors to tend you, secure in the knowledge that they would not be able to enlighten you as to the nature of your condition. It was imperative that you believe you were seriously ill."

"On the contrary, I thought I was losing my mind."

"It kept you of mischief," said he without a trace of remorse. "All was well. I was resigned to my fate. Malpas had argued that the security of a wife would bolster me against your immoderate behaviour. Then the business with that police inspector came to the fore. Had the marriage taken place first, I was certain that Malpas would have lost interest in you. With a family of my own, you would have no longer been my concern."

Despite our familiarity, Mycroft still possessed the ability to astound me.

"Do you mean to say...?"

"Oh, yes," said he. "A child should be with its father, don't you agree? I understand Mr Cummings had not been informed of the event before the Earl sent him on his way. It was well you meddled, brother, as I knew you would."

There was a self-congratulatory note about his tone for which I did not care.

"Indeed, I was counting on it," he went on. "I knew you could not resist the mystery. I could not interfere. Malpas was watching me like a hawk. Were it discovered that I had ruined the match, I do not doubt he would have brought death to my door. You, on the other hand, were a free agent."

"As it happens, Mycroft, it was Lady Hester who asked for my assistance."

He waved this aside. "That the deed was done is quite enough. Once the situation with Lestrade arose, I saw an opportunity to extricate myself from this intolerable situation. Serendipity, you might say. There would be some danger to ourselves, but I was confident of my ability to manage it. With my fiancée departed, I would be vulnerable again, and Malpas would turn his attention back to you, especially if you were seen to have fallen back into your old habits."

"Most considerate of you, Mycroft."

"I cannot take all the credit. The Home Secretary was insistent that something be done about Lestrade, and I knew that were anything to happen to the fellow that you would feel compelled to ask questions. By recommending you to Bradley, it made you a visible, credible threat again."

"It worked."

Mycroft nodded. "Malpas' renewed intent was evident the night of the dinner at Roselynn's. He had requested your presence. He said it was vital that we presented a united front. I was concerned, rightly so, as it transpired. Then you went missing and I feared he had had some hand in your disappearance. I was reassured when Mrs Bulstrode told me that you had discovered what she had been doing, and I thought perhaps you suspected some murderous intent on my part."

"I did."

"That you were out of Malpas' reach was an unexpected touch. I did realise, however, that sooner or later you would reappear and he would try again. And where once he had failed, he would not do so again."

"Your precautions were noted."

A gleam came to Mycroft's eye. "Then your actions were not as selfless as you would have me believe."

I nodded wearily. "I knew I had not left a full bottle of laudanum in my rooms when I departed. Nor had Malpas brought it with him; he sniffed the contents before giving it to me. Therefore, I concluded that it had been placed there in anticipation of such an event."

"Mrs Bulstrode performed the task admirably. I told the dear lady to prepare a diluted solution of laudanum and leave it in a prominent position. My hope was that Malpas would use what was to hand. He prefers the personal touch."

"He did," I confirmed.

"The only problem was that neither Mrs Bulstrode nor I were confident of the dosage. I told her to err on the side of caution. As it transpired, it was still too much. The poor woman believes she is responsible for your death. I shall have to make some explanation. A personal appearance by yourself would ease her mind. You look remarkably well, for a corpse."

I glowered at him.

"How do you feel?"

"Weak," I replied. "And sore."

My fingers had traced a tender area of skin on the side of my throat.

Mycroft adopted that air of superiority he reserved for bestowing the fruits of his knowledge on lesser mortals.

"A special procedure was employed to prevent your demise. The surgeon called it faradisation of the phrenic nerve. You were having trouble breathing. Having doused you with cold water, held smelling salts under your nose and tickled your larynx, they then turned to the wonders of modern science. You were exposed to a faradic current for the best part of three hours. They were hoping you would awaken so they could administer an emetic. As you steadfastly refused to co-operate, they had to use atropine. From a spectator's point of view, it was really quite exhausting."

"Rest assured, it was as nothing compared to that experienced by the participants."

I was beginning to weary, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes open.

"Do not mock, dear boy," said he. "My role of encouragement was crucial. Time and time again, they were prepared to give up, but I told them you must be saved at all costs."

I forced a smile. "Sentiment, Mycroft?"

"Pragmatism. I needed you as a witness to Malpas' dealings." He consulted his pocket watch. "I am expecting the Prime Minister at five o'clock. I would be obliged if you would attend. You should rest until then. Galloping about in the wilds of Suffolk has clearly fatigued you. Ellis will help you dress at the appropriate hour. Do you require anything before then?"

I nodded to the jug and glass on the side table. "Water?"

Some things never change. That Mycroft would consider performing an act as menial as pouring a drink to quench the thirst of a soul in need was unthinkable.

"I'll send for Ellis," said he. "He will get it for you."

And with that, he finally left me in peace.

* * *

_**So that's how Sherlock survived the laudanum. Mycroft, he thinks of everything. But putting his brother in jeopardy in the first place – tut-tut, Mr Holmes!**_

_**Continued in Chapter Twenty-Four!**_


	25. Chapter 24

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Chapter Twenty-Four: All The Pretty Little Horses**

A little before the appointed hour, the trusted steward of the Diogenes, Ellis, came to help me dress. Even with his assistance, the simplest task was beyond me. I was as weak as a kitten, wretchedly exhausted and a mass of aches and pains.

We decided, after wrestling futilely with the notion of my putting on a clean shirt, that the result was not worth the expense. So it was that I went to meet the Prime Minister still clad in night shirt and dressing gown. If nothing else, thanks to Ellis' ministrations, I was clean-shaven and groomed. I was not altogether unpresentable for a patient no one had expected to recover.

From Mycroft's mortified expression when we entered the Strangers' Room, however, I could tell that our efforts had been in vain. He began to make effusive apologies to his guest, an elderly man with grizzled whiskers and a thin tonsure of white hair, who had the air of an Oxbridge don. I had met him once before; he seemed more care-worn and shrivelled than ever, as though the pressures of high office were draining the life from him.

"You must forgive my brother's appearance," said Mycroft. "He has been indisposed."

"Indisposed, you say?" the Prime Minister remarked, his bushy brows rising half up his forehead. "That is a queer way of putting it, Holmes. I had heard he was dead. In which case, he looks much improved."

He stepped forward. I scarce had the energy to shake the hand he offered.

"A pleasure to meet you again, Mr Sherlock Holmes," said he. "I am gratified to hear that the news of your death was exaggerated. How do these rumours start, I wonder? Do sit down, sir, no need to stand on ceremony on my account."

Ellis helped me to an armchair with its back to the door by the fire before slipping away with his usual considered discretion.

"Now, Holmes," said the Prime Minister, easing himself into the seat opposite mine, "would you care to explain why you led the world to believe that this young man was dead? I take it that it has something to do with the reason you asked me here this evening."

Mycroft adopted a position directly between us, where he could command both our attention and the lion's share of the warmth from the fire.

"You may have heard, sir, that my unfortunate brother succumbed after misjudging a dose of laudanum," stated Mycroft. "That is not the case. It was no error."

The Prime Minister frowned. "Do you mean to say that he sought to take his own life?"

"Not at all. I say that it was nothing less than attempted murder."

"Normally," said our visitor, clearing his throat, "should a fellow make such a charge, I should accuse them of being melodramatic, of reading too much into what may have been a simple mistake by the apothecary. However," said he, studying Mycroft with care, "I know you to be a sensible man, Holmes, not given to flights of fancy. So when you say that someone tried to murder your brother, I tend to believe you. Do you have a suspect?"

"I do."

"Then name him, man! Hang your confounded reticence!"

Mycroft took a deep breath. "Colonel Ambrose Malpas."

There was a moment of pause before the distinguished statesman spoke again. "That is a serious accusation. I trust Malpas with my life."

"Yes, sir. I am aware of that. I would not say it if it were not true."

The Prime Minister's gaze turned to me. "What do you say, Mr Holmes?"

I gave him a brief account of what of had transpired in my rooms. The more I told him, the darker his expression became.

"I cannot believe it," said he at last. "What you suggest is monstrous. That Malpas would be capable of cold-blooded murder..."

"I doubt he sees it as such," said Mycroft. "He has a misplaced sense of duty."

"No!" The Prime Minister rose sharply to his feet. "I will not tolerate such calumny! You have overstepped the mark, Holmes. You have conspired with your brother to invent these falsehoods for your own profit!"

"What if it came from his own lips?" suggested Mycroft, taking out his pocket watch. "He is due to arrive at any minute."

"You are a clever man, but on this occasion you are wrong," said the Prime Minister, his eyes gleaming. "What the devil are you up to?"

"Nothing, sir, save that the truth should be known. I have served loyally. I have made many sacrifices for Queen and country. There is much I would do and more, but not at the cost of my brother's life. The price is too high, Prime Minister. We are orphans of the storm, after all."

The elder man's manner became conciliatory. "I understand that you have suffered much these last few days," said he. "First, the desertion of your fiancée, and then this misfortune with your brother. At such times, we try to make sense of these events. Rest assured, it is in the hands of a higher Providence, my son. I shall forgive your slander against Malpas. Let us say no more about it."

But for the return of Ellis, I was certain he should have left. Faced with my testimony and the prospect of hearing the truth from Malpas himself, the statesman was exercising a preference for turning the proverbial 'blind eye' rather than acknowledging the crimes being committed for his benefit. I understood now why Mycroft had felt the need to behave in such an underhand manner. It would take time for me to pardon his actions; when I did, it would be in the knowledge that he had not lied when he had explained he had had no choice in the matter.

Noble sacrifice, as Malpas had said. In years to come, it was a decision I would have to take on that fateful day overlooking the chasm of the Reichenbach Falls. I have never doubted that I was right. If I share nothing else with Mycroft and Malpas, it has been in the strength of our convictions.

On cue, the man in question followed Ellis into the room. Mycroft's small gesture had cautioned me to stay out of view. I heard the confident tap of his heels on the floor as he approached, finally tempered with just a little hesitation that caused him to stop before he could see me. I could not observe his expression, but even the meanest of intellects would have detected that trouble was afoot in the stern countenance of the Premier.

"Prime Minister, Mr Holmes," said he, his usual courtesies betraying an edge of apprehension. "I received your wire."

"Thank you for coming, Malpas," said Mycroft. "This is somewhat irregular, although I am sure you appreciate that I have had certain difficulties of late."

"My condolences on your loss. By all accounts, your brother was a gifted young man."

"Mr Holmes says you forced his brother to drink poison." The Prime Minister was never a man to mince his words. "Malpas, is this true?"

A startled laugh broke from the man. "Good heavens! What an extraordinary accusation!"

Mycroft nodded to me. With effort, I rose to my feet and turned to face my assassin.

The blood drained from Malpas' face. No sense of remorse took its place; rather, he regarded me with cold, hard fury.

"What does it take to kill you?" he uttered from between clenched teeth.

"Many have tried," I replied. "And yet, here I am."

"My God, Malpas," said the Prime Minister, appalled. "Is this true? Did you try to murder this young man?"

To his credit, faced with discovery, Malpas composed himself and adopted his usual _sang froid_. He took a seat, drew a cigarette from its case and carefully lit it. Only then did he deign to answer the question.

"I have murdered no one," said he, casually. "I offered Mr Holmes a full bottle of laudanum. The choice to drink it was his. I _facilitated_ his decision, nothing more."

"Do not chop logic with me, sir!" For all his perceived frailty, the Prime Minister made a formidable opponent. "What have you done?"

"I did what needed to be done. What others would not do. I have been charged with protecting this government, and, by God, I had done my duty."

" Mr Sherlock Holmes is not our enemy. You would have killed an innocent man!"

"Innocent?!" A hard, maniac look came into Malpas' eye. "I have waded knee-deep in the _disjecta membra_ of mankind. Gamblers, fornicators, inverts, drunkards, wastrels, _misfits_." The emphasis came with a glance at me. "I have had to smile and pander to these sops while better men died. While my son died, sir!"

"Malpas, I grieve for your loss–"

"The day he died, I was at your side, Prime Minister. Lord Attenbury's son had had a dalliance with a married woman who found herself inconvenienced while her husband was overseas. You asked me to extract the young man from what you called 'a scrape'. And before my boy was cold in his grave, you summoned me back. Lord Whaitely's younger brother was under threat of blackmail from those to whom he owed money on account of gambling debts."

He was unnaturally calm as he spoke, which made his words all the more compelling.

"Do not lecture me on the nature of innocence, sir," he continued. "For there is none in this god-forsaken world."

"There is blood on your hands, Malpas. How many have you killed?"

He drew on his cigarette and considered.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes would have been the thirteenth." He smiled ruefully. "Unlucky for some, as they say."

The Premier collapsed into his chair as Malpas began to reel off a list of the names of his victims.

"All worthless," he finished. "Who has missed them?"

"I hardly know what to say," said the Prime Minister, holding his head in his hands. "How have I been so blind?"

Mycroft, wisely, choose to say nothing, although I could tell from his expression that our thoughts were one and the same.

"You shall answer for their deaths, Malpas."

He smiled, unconcernedly. "I think not, Prime Minister. You will find that I have acted within my remit, to identify threats to the good governance of these isles and find solutions to resolve same." He chuckled. "Richelieu himself could not have put it better. 'It is by my order and for the good of the state that the bearer of this letter has done what he has done.' _Age quod agis_, as we are taught."

"Regretfully, you are correct," said the statesman, wearily. "I cannot excuse myself from blame. You are guilty only of following those instructions to the letter. Go, Malpas, we shall speak of this another time."

I stared at Mycroft. His expression remained impassive.

Malpas stubbed out his cigarette, and rose elegantly to his feet. Making his farewells, he gave a nod to me.

"Goodbye, Mr Sherlock Holmes. I expect our paths shall cross again."

"I do not doubt it," I replied.

"These men are under my protection, Colonel," said the Prime Minister. "Mr Mycroft Holmes is our trusted advisor, and his brother has been of use to us in the past. We expect much of him in the future."

"As you wish, sir. Until I am told otherwise."

"Rest assured, that day will never come."

A smile pushed through Malpas' lips. "No one is indispensable. The graveyards are full of men who thought otherwise."

With that, he turned and left. The Prime Minister sighed, and his shoulders appeared more stooped than ever, as though he had once again shouldered the burdens of the world.

"For this infamy, I can do nothing," he admitted. "But I shall see to it that no more lives are lost. You have my apologies, gentlemen, and my gratitude."

I began to protest, but Mycroft interrupted me. "I am sure you know what is best, sir."

"Do I?" he grunted. "I begin to wonder. The flower of the country's manhood has been severed from under my very nose and I have stood by in ignorance. What am I to do? Malpas cannot be put on trial, and well the clever devil knows it! The scandal would bring down the government and leave us vulnerable to our enemies. For that reason, gentlemen, what has transpired here this evening must never leave this room."

"I know I can speak for my brother, Prime Minister, when I say that you may rest assured on that account," said Mycroft.

"Excellent. Malpas will be dealt with, have no fear. A foreign posting, I dare say, might be best suited to his talents."

"Out of sight, out of mind?" I suggested with ill-concealed bitterness.

The Prime Minister smiled sadly. "We are none us of perfect, Mr Holmes, save the Lord above. The rest of us must do the best we can. Now, as for you, I can appreciate that you may feel aggrieved."

"That is not the word I should have used, sir."

"Granted, but given your poor health of late, your error over the correct dosage of your laudanum was understandable. Who among us has not felt the torments of pain and wished to be rid of it? I am told," he went on, ignoring my simmering outrage, "that the warmth of foreign climes may do wonders for the constitution. These English winters are a trial, even to a healthy man. Don't you agree, Mr Holmes?"

He studied me under beetling brows, defying me to contradict him.

"I met that cousin of yours a few days ago," he said. "A charming fellow. What is his name? Ah, yes, Miles. He tells me he is going to Italy for several months. Why don't you join him, Mr Holmes? It would do you the world of good."

"Is that a suggestion or a command?"

Mycroft glared at me, but the old statesman smiled.

"You may take it as you wish, young man. You will not find us ungrateful. I understand a man may travel comfortably on five hundred pounds. I shall have my secretary send you the funds from petty cash. As for you, Holmes..."

He turned to my brother.

"I need your counsel, given the parlous state of relations with the Prussians at present. I cannot give you leave to go gadding about the Continent with your brother."

"I understand, sir," said Mycroft, feigning regret.

"As to your own recent misfortune, there are many pretty young ladies who would be glad to accept your proposal."

"My heart is too heavy to consider another, I fear. I would rather remain unwed than enter half-hearted into wedlock."

A knowing smile played upon the Premier's lips.

"I see. It is well a man knows his own disposition. Well, good day, gentleman, and godspeed, Mr Holmes, on your travels."

Leaning heavily on his cane, he took his leave. Ellis was waiting at the door to help him out, and with Mycroft's guests finally gone, we were left alone.

"Does this sit well with you, brother?" I challenged him. "A murderer, shuffled away abroad, while I am paid for my silence and sent on my way with an apple in my hand and a pat on the head!"

"Must you be so noisy, Sherlock?" said Mycroft wearily. He deserted his post and collapsed into the nearest chair. "It is the best we could hope for under the circumstances. Malpas knows too much. A public scandal would benefit no one. Besides, any manner of misfortune may befall a man on a long journey. Passengers are lost overboard. Strange ailments lurk around every corner. I am told that there are certain vipers than can strike a man dead simply by looking at him."

"Nonsense, Mycroft." When I glanced over at him, it was find that he was smiling. "I fail to see any humour in the situation."

"Oh, the situation is deplorable. I cannot argue with you there. No, brother, I was wondering about you. What _exactly_ has caused this unaccustomed show of emotion? I have not seen you this animated since I cut the tail off your rocking horse."

"That was a long time ago. I had forgotten."

"And forgiven? I know your habit of holding grudges of old. It would not surprise me in the slightest if your current obstinacy stems from that misadventure. As for Malpas, you cannot be overly taken aback by the outcome. You have experience enough to know how these things work."

I perched on the arm of the chair and let the crackling fire fan warmth over my legs. I was aware Mycroft was watching me intently, and I could anticipate his thoughts.

"It is not what you imagine."

"Ah, then you are disgruntled about being bested. I had expected as much. I suppose I am to blame. When you were a child, it was easier to let you win than to endure your tantrums. You were a miserable wretch, Sherlock. Even the milkman said you had a face like a cloudy day."

I bridled. "What business was it of his?"

"He called all the children 'Sunshine', except in your case; he said he couldn't bring himself to do it. Always scowling at him, you were. Father said it was because you had the mind of an intellectual. Mother said it was wind."

I caught myself scowling again, and fought the urge to laugh.

"You cannot always have things your own way, my dear boy," Mycroft went on. "If you take nothing from this ordeal, let it be wisdom. It was Aristophanes who said that there is more worth in one's enemies than in friends. Enemies teach us to build our defences and arm against danger. This has been a valuable lesson for you, Sherlock. The next time, you will be prepared."

"Should we become arsenic-eaters then, Mycroft?" I said grudgingly. "I do not believe that the Prime Minister's warning will stay Malpas' hand should the opportunity arise."

Mycroft nodded, his chin finally coming to rest on his chest. "It is well that you are going away. Time enough, I dare say, for matters to settle down to their usual rhythm at Whitehall."

I stared at him. "I expected more opposition from you."

"Because of our lamentable cousin?" Mycroft pursed his lips. "It is a necessary evil. It will be an education for you, if nothing else. Never trust a fellow who knows the sins of the world by name, but has never encountered them for himself. Miles knows sins enough to enlighten any man." He hesitated and his gaze strayed to the dancing flames. "He wrote to me, you know, while you were ill. He said I had placed you in intolerable danger. Furthermore, he said I did not deserve you."

"He told me that you had lost control."

A grunt of laughter escaped him. "On the contrary, I was never more _in_ control. But for your interference, we might have avoided your recent malaise. I have no regrets, Sherlock. I would not hesitate to do it again. 'By my order and for the good of my brother, I have done what I have done'," he mused. "Perhaps there is something in that, after all."

With effort, he rose to his feet. As he passed, he laid a hand on my shoulder. Physical displays of sentiment not being in Mycroft's nature, the gesture took me by surprise.

"Promise me one thing," said he. "Do not stay away too long."

"You may depend upon it, Mycroft."

That seemed to satisfy him and started towards the door.

"But when I do, it shall be on my terms," I remarked.

"I never doubted it." He turned back to me. "I would only ask that you turn your attention away from this 'Professor'. If you wish to follow this path of a detective, then let it be some quiet, profitable occupation that does not involve the threat of death by fire or at the end of a blade."

"I have no choice to be anything otherwise. My face and name has become known in certain circles."

"It seems to me," said Mycroft, "how that cannot be a bad thing."

"It may be that my search is at an end, in any case. Malpas, they call him a 'Puppet Master', do they not? To my knowledge, practitioners of the art of 'Punch and Judy' are called 'professors'."

Mycroft sighed and shook his head, in weary acknowledgement that his sage advice had fallen on deaf ears.

"Get some clothes on, Sherlock," said he as he left. "This is a respectable club, not a bordello."

* * *

_**Well, we know that Sherlock isn't right about Malpas, but good theory! And, we're almost at the end of the tale. Join me in the Epilogue where we'll be waving young Mr Holmes goodbye as he goes on his travels – and, because I know Oliver is concerned, we'll also be catching up with Cousin Miles.**_

_**Concluded in the Epilogue!**_


	26. Epilogue

_**The Malicious Maligning of Inspector Lestrade**_

**Epilogue**

Five days later found me back in my Montague Street rooms, a trunk filled with everything I would need for an extended trip to the Continent and the remainder of my possessions neatly packed away.

I had returned, despite all that had happened, as, for the present, I had nowhere else to go. I had determined to rectify that situation when my exile came to an end. For all Mrs Bulstrode's assurances, I could never forget that Mycroft had paid for these quarters and that the landlady was at his beck and call.

Living my life on my own terms meant making my way in the world. If that meant moving to a seedier part of London, if it meant seeking another fellow to share the cost of the rent, then so be it. Others had made greater sacrifices in pursuit of their art. To reclaim my independence would be worth the indignity; it might even prove to be an interesting experiment.

With all bar a few final items left to consign to the packing cases, Mrs Bulstrode knocked at my door and informed me that there was a young lady outside requesting an audience. I hurried down to find a growler with Sarah Lucas standing guard beside its open door. On seeing me, she motioned to the occupant of the cab, and Lady Hester stepped out.

"Mr Holmes," said she with a confident smile. "We did not know if we would find you here. There was talk that you had been injured. I hope not on my account."

"It was nothing," I replied. "You are leaving, I see."

A fleetingly look of surprise crossed her face. "You deduced that from the trunks, I suppose."

She stole a glance to the array of boxes and cases atop the cab.

"That, and your garb, Lady Hester." The long powder blue coat, decorated with lace, coupled with the hat set at an angle, was most becoming. "You have the air of someone about to embark on an adventure."

She inclined her head. "Mr and Mrs Cummings have asked me to join them. Mr Cummings has been most generous. He wishes to show me the delights of his homeland. And my sister will be glad of my presence, I am sure."

She did not elaborate, nor did she need to do so. All was known, and between friends, understood.

"What of your father?" I asked.

"My father is entitled to his opinions. His error is in assuming that the rest of the world shares them."

"He does not approve of your leaving?"

"He is not paying my passage." She lowered her eyes. "In truth, my father is most angry. He forbids all mention of my sister. Indeed, he has disowned her. Not that she is worried in the slightest. Her happiness is complete. She wishes only to liberate me from his influence."

"He does not know," I concluded.

Lady Hester nodded. "He believes I am visiting an old friend who has taken ill. Even in that, he poured scorn on my intentions. He has become bitter and has taken to immoderate drinking." Her hand stole to her arm. "If possible, I shall not return."

My concern grew. "He has beaten you."

I thought I saw the beginning of tears in her eyes. Certainly, I saw the fading bruise on her cheek that the tilt of the hat had concealed. "He believes I had knowledge of my sister's elopement. He said she has brought shame upon our family, and I have colluded in my own disgrace. Who will marry me now, he says."

"Many would be honoured."

Her eyes drifted to mine, full of hope. What she found there was to cause her disappointment.

"Mr Cummings says he shall find me a rich American gentleman. He says I shall be the toast of society." A faint smile touched her lips as her thoughts wandered far afield. "I think it would be nice to be..."

"Appreciated?" I finished for her.

"Wanted," she said. "For I am not wanted here. My father intends to sell me off as soon as possible to be rid of me. Well, he shall have his wish. I sail tonight from Southampton."

"He could demand your return. He could send an agent to force you."

Lady Hester gave a rueful laugh. "That would require resources, and he is an impecunious as ever. He has already squandered the money George gave him for Catherine the Great. Which reminds me, Mr Holmes, George has found himself in difficulties concerning the sale. The authorities believe he had knowledge of the race-fixing. He has requested your assistance."

I could not deny there was some satisfaction in hearing of Lord Shadwell's predicament. Greater still was the pleasure of my reply.

"You may tell him that 'Dotty' is unavailable."

"I thought you would say that," said she, smiling. "I never did thank you for what you did, Mr Holmes."

"I did very little, Lady Hester. I fear I was unable to save your horse."

"You did what you could. I cannot express my gratitude enough. My father knew of the fraud, I am sure. That is why he was to keen to accept George's offer. Did she suffer, Mr Holmes?"

I shook my head. "She was dead before the fire took hold."

"I am glad," said she. "I could not bear that thought. She was my last link with England. Now she is gone, so must I."

The unspoken look in her eye suggested that she still held out hope for another link. Should it be forthcoming, I did not doubt her answer. I gave her no encouragement.

"Then we are both travellers, Lady Hester, for I am bound for Europe. I am to join my cousin for a tour of Italy. We leave today."

"Cousin Miles?" she asked with a gleam in her eye. "Then I am sure you shall adventures of your own, Mr Holmes. Lady Agatha too shall not be idle. She is to meet a young man who will assist her in her next story. There is to be scandal involving horses. My publishers are much taken with the idea."

"I shall be sure to look out for it."

"Well, goodbye, Mr Holmes. I am for the west, and you for the east, and never the twain shall meet, as they say. If you are ever in Pennsylvania, I hope you will visit us. You will always be welcome. We shall never forget what you have done for us."

I took the offered hand. "It was a pleasure, Lady Hester."

She returned to the cab and settled herself inside. Lucas was about to follow her, when she paused and looked back at me. For the first and last time, she smiled and grasped me warmly by the hand. I had passed the test and had earned the rare distinction of becoming one of the favoured few. Of all the honours and accolades I have won during my career, this above all reigned supreme.

I would never see Lady Hester again. I would hear of her though, how she came to thrive and work her way through a procession of successful marriages, growing ever richer and indulging her passion for equine perfection, whilst becoming one of the most popular authors in her chosen genre. When my investigations carried to me to those far-off shores, I did not visit. Some memories are best left unvisited. She did not forget, however, and it was many years later that I read with some amusement that her first Derby winner was named Sherlock.

For the present time, I had my own journey to begin. An hour later, I was at Charing Cross Station, waiting for Miles and our appointment with the boat train to Dover. I was savouring my last decent cup of tea before leaving English soil when I saw coming towards me a familiar figure on crutches. Inspector Lestrade hobbled over and lurched into a chair at my table.

"Well, Mr Holmes," said he. "A little birdie tells me that you're leaving us. Not for good, I trust."

"No, Inspector, a short trip abroad."

"It's all right for some," he grunted.

"Aimless holidays are not to my taste."

"Then why are you going?"

A waiter came over with a tea-pot, cup and saucer and a plate of biscuits.

"And how much is this going to cost me?" Lestrade grumbled.

"I'll pay," I said, taking the bill.

"What's this, a guilty conscience?"

"Call it a gesture of reconciliation."

"It'll take more than a cup of station tea." He poured himself a cup and took a sip. "Tastes like lead pencils," he muttered. "You'd think they could do better, what with their fancy prices. Still, it'll have to do for now. I won't be taking tea at Claridge's any time soon. I'm having to tighten my purse strings."

He gazed at me inquiringly, pressing the issue.

"Your superiors have accepted your version of events, but have demanded that you repay your winnings."

Lestrade pursed his lips. "I won't ask how you know that, but you are correct."

"It was a logical assumption."

"And inconvenient. I've had to tell the wife we won't be moving, after all. Which reminds me, Mr Holmes, I lent you ten pounds a while back to pay a debt."

I delved into my pocket and produced two notes. "Settle my account with Gregson when you see him."

"Come into some money, have we?"

Trying to explain that the government had paid me for my silence over the Malpas incident would be futile. I scarce believed it myself.

"Something like that," I said instead.

He grunted. "We haven't all got rich brothers ready to give us handouts whenever we like. I take it you and him got over your differences?"

I nodded.

"And he isn't trying to poison you no more?"

"Not today. How is the leg?"

"It'll mend."

Indeed it would, and he would live to fight – and blunder – another day. But the Inspector would be left with a weak ankle that forever after caused his left foot to turn inwards. Better that, however, than the fate others had had in store for him.

"I'll keep my position, though for the time being they've got me chained to a desk, working on applications for naturalisation." He let the thought hang before continuing. "They've made Gregson up to Inspector again."

"You needed his support."

"One day he could use it against me."

"Only at the risk of implicating himself. He too has profited from this debacle by his promotion. It serves him nothing to expose you."

"Except satisfaction."

"The only person to say otherwise would be Matthews, and he is too discredited to be believed. What happened to him, by the way?"

"That's what we'd all like to know, Mr Holmes. He took to his heels and that was the last anyone saw of him. Good thing too. He might have been crooked, but he was good to me at the beginning. We all lose our way, at one time or another."

I stared at him, wondering if the man had learned anything from recent events. To have faith in human nature is one thing; to continue to believe against all evidence to the contrary is foolishness in the extreme.

"He tried to implicate you in charges of corruption," I reminded him. "Blind Billy was his informant. They fed you information about humdrum cases to raise your profile in the press. When you fell, and the tips they gave you for those fixed races would make sure of your disgrace, the outrage would give them the diversion his paymaster needed. Matthews must have had pause when Bradley asked me to investigate. I was not myself the day we had our interview. He must have thought he was safe. He could not have been more wrong."

"You're forgetting one thing. The crime still took place."

"By then, it was too late to do anything about it. And one scapegoat is much like another."

Lestrade nodded. "Better if they never find him, if you ask me."

"It would never come to trial."

"We still do things proper in this country, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade with indignation. "He would have had his day in court."

I wondered what Malpas would make of that argument, and finished my tea without comment.

"What of you? I suppose you'll be taking some government sinecure when you return."

"No, Inspector, I shall be resuming my profession."

"What does your brother have to say about that?"

"It is no longer his concern."

Lestrade sniffed and took a moment to consider as he chewed his biscuit.

"You'll be needing clients," he said after due deliberation.

"Indeed."

"You'll advertise."

"Possibly."

"Word of mouth."

"Certainly."

"A contact at the Yard would be useful."

"Do you know of one?"

"I might." He took his time finishing his biscuit before wiping his fingers on the table-cloth. "I can't excuse what you did, Mr Holmes. Trust is very important to me. I thought we had an understanding. You should have told me."

"I see that now, Inspector."

"However," said he, with a sigh, "I can't deny that you've got a good brain on you. I dare say you thought what you did was for the best. But it's still arrogance in my book. And I don't like it. Confound it all, I deserved better than that!"

"Yes, you did."

We all have moments of regret in our lives. The decision I had made that day had proved to be a fateful one. The early bonds we had forged had been broken, never to return. Lestrade would not be a stranger to my door, but an underlying level of suspicion and resentment would remain. Perhaps it was better that way. Our paths could not have been more different.

"All the same," he went on, "you've been useful in the past. I dare say other little mysteries will come my way that need your particular way of looking at things."

"As always, I would be most interested. Is that why you came today, Inspector, to enquire if our working relationship was to continue?"

He gave me a peculiar look.

"In matter of fact, I came to return this to you." With that, he took from his pocket the small bottle I had entrusted to him at the racecourse. He seemed reluctant to part with it, and toyed with it as he spoke. "You said it gave the horses increased stamina. Do you know what it is?"

"I have a fair idea."

"What do you intend to do with it?"

"To analyse it," I replied.

His fixed his keen gaze upon me. "That's what I thought."

And then, before I could stop him, he had pulled out the cork and tipped the contents into the nearest potted palm. I could hardly suppress my irritation at his high-handed actions.

"The Devil makes work for idle hands," said he, passing me the now empty bottle. "You've already got a problem with laudanum. Taking something meant for horses won't help you none."

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that the problem had been less mine than other people's, when something about one of the passing passengers caught my eye. He had a full beard, moustache and whiskers, carried a carpet bag and walked with purpose across the concourse. He appeared to be an average gentleman going about his business. But it was his reaction when he passed a wandering constable that made me take another look at him.

I have observed that few people care to look a policeman square in the eyes. Every man carries a burden of guilt for something, however insignificant. Usually, it manifests itself as a simple aversion of the gaze, but this gentleman deliberately turned his head, as if to avoid being seen.

It took me a moment to remember where I had seen him before.

"Matthews," I said to Lestrade. "He's here."

"Where?" said the Inspector.

But I was already gone. I pushed through the milling throng, gaining on the man. In my haste, I hurried past a gentleman holding an umbrella, whose curved handle hooked around my elbow and I wrenched it from his grasp.

"Have a care, young man," admonished the aggrieved fellow, raising his voice to levels calculated to alert all and sundry to the liberty taken with his possessions. "Less haste, more speed."

His caution was wasted on me, but not so Matthews, who had turned to see the cause of the uproar. Our eyes met, and a moment later, he had dropped his bag and was haring away. I raced after him, knocking an indignant porter over a pile of luggage and raising squeals of alarm from the ladies. From behind me, I heard the ringing peel of a police whistle. Ahead, Matthews was running out of places to hide. He hurled himself through an open doorway, only to find it led not to freedom, but into a crowded waiting room.

Hastily, he tried to retrace his steps, but I was already there in the doorway, barring his escape. To the dismay of the other passengers, he threw himself at me, trying to force his way through. Momentarily caught off balance, I was slow to avoid the fist he threw at my jaw. I heard the crack of fracturing enamel and tasted a sudden wash of blood in my mouth.

If he thought it was enough to secure his escape, it was mistaken. A broken tooth was nothing compared to my recent experiences. I grabbed him, twisted his arm behind his back and threw him against the wall.

"You have to let me go," Matthews pleaded. "My God, you don't know what they'll do to me!"

It was too late. The constable I had seen earlier was upon us, demanding to know the reason for the commotion. It was enough that I could manage the Chief Inspector's name. The constable's face flushed and his manner swelled with authority.

"I'll take over from here, sir," said he. "Come along, Mr Matthews."

His prisoner resisted. "No, there's been a mistake."

"No mistake, constable," came Lestrade's voice. He limped over to us, leaning heavily on his crutch. "That's former Chief Inspector Matthews all right."

"Lestrade, you know me," Matthews appealed to him. "This is wrong."

"You'll have plenty of time to explain down at the Yard."

Matthews' eyes bulged. "I'm innocent. I never hurt anyone."

"You tried to destroy my reputation." Lestrade stood a little taller. "That would've hurt my family. And no one does that, not while there's a breath in my body. Constable, take him away."

Matthews was hauled away, shouting and protesting his innocence. His prediction would prove accurate. A week later, I was to read that the former Chief Inspector had been found hanging by the neck in his cell. I could believe the coroner's verdict of suicide if Matthews had thought a worse fate lay in store for him. I could also believe that he had gone unwillingly to his death, either at the hands of the Professor's agents or another man like Malpas, sent to put an end to an inconvenient problem. Far away in another land, without the opportunity to examine the body, I would never know for sure. I felt no pity for him. Matthews had known the risks when he had embarked on his course of action. Such is the price when deals are made with the Devil.

As for Lestrade and myself, we retreated from the waiting room and the vicinity of curious onlookers.

"What's happened to you?" Lestrade asked, noting the blood-stained handkerchief.

"I think he's knocked out my left canine."

Lestrade squinted at my mouth. "He has too, clean and proper. Have you got the tooth?"

"I may have swallowed it."

"Bad luck. You should get that looked at."

"Excellent advice, Inspector."

We both turned at the sound of the newcomer's voice. Miles had appeared as if from nowhere, one hand thrust in his coat pocket, wearing an expression of weary exasperation behind the wreaths of smoke from his cigarette.

"Bless my soul, Sherlock," he remarked. "Whatever have you done to yourself now?"

"I know you, don't I?" said Lestrade suspiciously. "Aren't you–"

"Miles Holmes at your service," said he graciously. "We had a passing acquaintance, oh, was it last year?"

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "Yes, we did. Tell me, Mr Holmes, you wouldn't happen to know anything about the theft of a certain pink diamond?"

"Only what I read in the papers, Inspector."

"Then you wouldn't mind if I were to make a search of your luggage."

Miles shrugged lightly. "Not at all, my dear sir. I would remind you, however, that I am due to catch a train leaving in five minutes. Should I miss it and my onward connections as a result of your spurious suspicions, I shall naturally expect some small compensation for my trouble. Shall we say fifty pounds? Would the Yard's allowance stretch that far, I wonder?"

Lestrade saw that this was a battle he would not win. "Best you be going then, sir."

"Thank you, Inspector." Miles summoned a wintry smile. "Come, Sherlock, we have a train to catch."

I began to follow in his wake when Lestrade called to me. "If he has it, Mr Holmes..."

"I shall see to it that you get it back."

"No questions asked?"

"Naturally."

"Oh, and Mr Holmes?"

I turned to him.

Lestrade gave me a knowing smile. "Take care."

I tipped my hat to him, and then hurried after my departing cousin. With our luggage aboard and the guard whistling the imminent departure of our train, I felt the first twinge of regret at the prospect of leaving London. I consoled myself with the certainty of my return, older, if not wiser, and renewed of purpose. But first I had to endure whatever Miles had in store for me. The months would drag until I could feel the cold, damp blast of an English winter on my face and inhale the suffocating city smog once again.

"Cigarette?" said Miles, offering me his engraved gold case as he settled in the corner of our First-Class compartment.

"I didn't think you were coming."

"There is an art to arriving at the right time. One should never arrive too early. It upsets the hostess. Cut it too fine, and you find yourself obliged to throw dignity to the wind and jostle yourself in the most unseemly manner. Finding that happy medium is a mark of good breeding. Failing that, it should be taught in our schools."

"There are better uses of a student's time."

"But none more important, my dear boy. It is all very well to learn '_amo amas amat' _by heart, but how does that prevent one from committing a social _faux pas_? Few ladies care to hear Latin verbs conjugated by heart. A gentleman educated in the finer points of etiquette, however, is always assured of a return invitation. Which reminds me, Sherlock."

He pulled down the sash and threw the remains of his cigarette out of the window. The wind caught the ash and dashed burning embers against the glass before snatching them away from our sight.

"You will try to make yourself agreeable on this trip, won't you? A man cannot woo with a skulking boy at his heels. This holiday is as much business for me as pleasure."

"I thought your business was concluded."

He caught the challenge in my voice. "For the time being."

"Return it."

A smile caused the corners of his mouth to rise. "I cannot. The diamond is no longer in my possession."

"Despite all that has happened, you persist in working for him."

Miles shrugged lightly. "I had no choice. I had to redeem myself in some manner. As long as I have value, my safety is assured. A good assassin is one thing; a good thief, quite another. Anyone can kill, as you discovered."

"I had no choice."

"Then we are both victims of circumstance."

"He said he was coming after you."

"And you despatched him for my sake? My dear boy, that is most considerate of you."

"That is not what I meant."

Miles nodded slowly, diverting his gaze to the window. "I received your telegram. I am obliged to you, Sherlock. I must admit to having been in something of a quandary before that. If Clarence had inferred my involvement, then so must others. Nor I could not be sure that he had not passed his knowledge on to his master before his demise. Under the circumstances, I decided to throw myself on the Professor's mercy."

"Compassion does not seem to be part of his nature."

"No. But he is a man of rare understanding. He said that he held honesty to be one of the highest virtues. Further, he said that a man who would betray family is a man not to be trusted." He paused. "He did say, however, that appearances must be maintained. He could not let a slight pass without consequence. It is bad for discipline, you see."

There had been an edge to his voice as he had spoken that I had not heard before.

"No doubt he refused to pay you for your services."

"Naturally. He took the diamond as a matter of course. No, the price of my betrayal would be the forfeiture of a finger. He let me choose which one. Most gracious of him, don't you agree?"

So saying, he drew out the hand he been concealing in his pocket. The three fingers of his left hand remained free of the bandage and, in place of the smallest, was a mound of heavy wadding. To say I was appalled was an understatement.

"Don't make a fuss, dear boy," said he in answer to my protests. "I believe I have got off lightly, and acquitted myself well into the bargain. It wasn't until they poured alcohol over the wound that I thought I should pass out. Well, the thing is done, and a good shirt ruined into the bargain."

"Miles, I am sorry."

"It is an airy nothing. One finger or one cousin – there is no contest. Besides, I intend to turn its loss to my advantage. I shall tell my admirers it is a duelling accident, that I fought an illicit battle for a lady's honour and won, only to emerge thus. The ladies love nothing better than a wounded hero. Hah! A man must have an edge when he journeys with an alluring travelling companion."

"I have no intention of debauching my way around Italy," I retorted. "I shall use my time to further my knowledge of crime and methods of investigation."

"My serious little cousin, of course you shall," he said, mockingly. "What a dull little cuckoo you are! However, I promise I shall deliver you home without a stain on your character – unless you choose otherwise. But, Sherlock, take my advice."

His tone had become serious.

"You are known. You are a figure of interest now to certain parties. One does not kill a man like Clarence and walk away unscathed." He indicated his bandaged hand. "Take heed, my dear boy."

"Then help me bring him to justice."

Miles relaxed back in his seat. "One day perhaps. Given your penchant for making enemies, it would be better if you never returned to drear old England. There are mysteries enough on the Continent to keep a man occupied for a lifetime."

"Be that as it may, I have every intention of returning."

"Then may Providence watch over you, for I cannot. Even Mycroft, for all his failings, professed himself at a loss to know what to do with you. He fears for you, Sherlock. He has a heart, after all."

He smiled at me, and the intensity of the moment was lost.

"And that is the greatest wonder of all," he went on. "I thought him a shell, devoid of the usual clutter that makes up mankind. But there, perhaps my letter shook something loose inside of him and brought the rusty machinery of his emotions back to life. Would that I could inspire the same in you, my dear boy. Well, we shall see. In the heat of an Italian summer, anything is possible!"

* * *

**The End**

_Well, another adventure comes to an end. It's been fun to write and I hope you've enjoyed it._

_My thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed, it was greatly appreciated._

_I'll be taking a short break over the summer for some research, but I do hope you'll join me in the autumn for the next in the series set in Venice:_

"**A Singular Scandal in 'La Serenissima'".**


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